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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22762072">you should know (you're more than you know)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thhimble/pseuds/thhimble'>thhimble</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Actor RPF, British Actor RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Celebrities, F/M, Long-Distance Friendship, Long-Distance Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Size Kink, Skype, Smutty Fun, as much as I can, because i'm a thirsty baby, but imma try to be a bit realistic with the whole thing, lets be honest, mostly - Freeform, we're all thirsty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 11:56:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>103,798</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22762072</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thhimble/pseuds/thhimble</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Maybe I hit my head,</em> she thinks,<em> maybe I fell off the treadmill and this is like, all a dream. A concussion dream. Concussion dreaming, is that a thing? This can’t really be happening. This isn’t really Superman.</em></p><p>Sinking her teeth into her cheek, Sofie debates answering him, <em>what’s the point,</em> she thinks, <em>what do you think is going to happen?</em><br/>Nothing, she tells herself. <em>Absolutely nothing.</em></p><p>Which, surprisingly, makes it a lot easier to talk to him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Henry Cavill/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>459</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>659</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I cannot believe i did rpf, i have no idea if there's even an audience for this, so if there is, drop a quick comment and i'll keep going. this is obviously purely for fun and it's going to be pretty smutty, so if you're like, into that, you know, holla.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Tumble outta bed and I stumble to the kitchen<br/>Pour myself a cup of ambition<br/><br/></em>
</p><p>                Sofie sings along to Dolly Parton in her headphones, hair swinging behind her as her sneakers pound over the belt of the treadmill.</p><p>
  <em>Yawn and stretch and try to come to life<br/>Jump in the shower and the blood starts pumpin'—</em>
</p><p>It’s easy to get lost in the song, to find a rhythm and lose herself in the happy beat as she runs and tries to ignore the clock on the treadmill’s display screen.</p><p>
  <em>Workin' 9 to 5, what a way to make a livin'<br/>Barely gettin' by, it's all takin' and no givin'</em>
</p><p>She pulls faces and gets into it, even as the sweat starts on her forehead, even as the song ends and the next begins and she’s Carla Thomas, singing to her <em>baby, oh baby, you're so good to me, baby.</em></p><p>And she’s moving her shoulders, not caring about her pace so much as feeling the beat of the song and forgetting about the clock, when she sees a shift of movement in her peripherals and almost stumbles as she realises she’s definitely <em>not</em> alone in the hotel gym.</p><p>There’s a man, sweat shiny on his forehead, shoulders broad and arms thick as he leans forward on the rowing machine, obviously having just stopped rowing— but he’s grinning, wide and white and toothy, watching her in the mirror.</p><p>She has no idea how she didn't notice him.</p><p><em>Oh my God,</em> she thinks, and she’s torn between stopping and not, between stopping and <em>leaving</em> because he’s hot— he’s <em>stupid hot,</em> he’s—</p><p><em>There’s no way,</em> she thinks, her eyes darting over him in the mirror, there’s no way that’s who she thinks it is.</p><p>It runs through her brain quickly, stumbling off the machine and leaving, turning around and introducing herself, telling him off for laughing at her, but she’s never been very… <em>confrontational</em> and she’s like, <em>ninety-nine-percent </em>sure she’s going to fucking embarrass herself if she even tries to get off the treadmill at all.</p><p>So, Sofie does the only thing she can do<em>—</em></p><p>Turns her music up higher and pretends like she isn’t <em>pretty sure</em> she knows who he is<em>, </em>pretends he isn’t stupid attractive and gives him a little wave in the mirror<em>. </em>Pretends the flush to her cheeks is just her workout and not her embarrassment.</p><p><em>Fake it ‘til you make it,</em> she thinks as he smiles at her, lifting a hand in a wave back<em>—</em> just as Harlem Shuffle starts playing in her ear and Sofie grins at him, playing up singing along while ignoring the flicker of nerves in her body when he laughs, watching her in the mirror, grinning and shaking his head at her.</p><p>It’s easier to get back into her workout if she pretends he’s not there at all, but even as one song rolls into another and the beats of her playlists start getting heavier to match the flow of her workout, she can’t quite forget he’s there. Pretty sure it’s <em>impossible</em> to forget he’s there—</p><p>Impossible to not glance at him in the mirror, watching him move through one exercise to the next, the flex of his muscles, the gathering shine of sweat…</p><p><em>It’s definitely him,</em> she thinks and averts her eyes before he can catch her looking at him; she’s pretty sure he must be used to people watching him, probably <em>way</em> too used to it, really. And she’s always hated the whole ‘<em>celebrities they’re just like us!’ </em>all while people scream and cry and faint over meeting someone famous.</p><p>She’s not going to be that, she tells herself, <em>nope. No way.</em></p><p><em>Fake it ‘til you make it,</em> she thinks and focuses back on her cardio. <em>He’s just a guy. Just a stupid hot fucking guy.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                She’s sweaty, blotchy from exertion, trying not to breathe too loudly— too aware of the man across the small, hotel gym, the mirrored-walls that hide nothing.</p><p><em>He’s fucking Superman,</em> she thinks and feels a little bit of embarrassment swelling up inside of her, aware of him in her peripherals, the sound of a quiet grunt as he shifts the weights above his head, slow and steady.</p><p>She isn’t sure if it’s more embarrassing to stay and sweat through her whole workout, or to like, <em>run away.</em></p><p><em>Probably running away, </em>she tells herself, and then tries to figure out what she’s going to do. Thinks about moving around him to grab some weights, but the idea of getting <em>closer</em> to him makes her stomach twist and her palms sweatier than they already are.</p><p>That’s like, <em>danger close.</em></p><p>She glances at him again, looking away quickly when she catches his eyes already on her and feels her nerves prickle, feels silly and stupid and young and absolutely out of her mind for the thoughts in her head she can’t quite stop. (Which are all about sweaty skin and his mouth and those muscles and—)</p><p><em>No, nope, nuh-uh,</em> she thinks and settles for a body-weight set of exercises instead, starting a set of lunges along length of the gym, stopping just short of where the weight-equipment and <em>fucking</em> <em>Superman</em> is.</p><p>She turns up her music, hoping to drown her thoughts out again (and him) and sinks down to the floor to do some abdominal exercises, getting lost in the beat of the song, in Robyn’s light voice; lip-syncing as she sings: <em>I’m just gonna dance all night, I’m all messed up, so outta line—</em></p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>                Sofie peels off her headphones, blowing out a long breath and looking up at the ceiling, at the one rotating black fan humming above her; overly aware of every noise in the gym, the push of cold air on her sweaty skin... and the sound of fucking Superman working out near her.</p><p><em>Time to</em> <em>go, </em>she thinks, <em>just— head down, don't stare and don't trip. You'll be fine. You'll totally be fine.</em></p><p>She forces herself up, ignoring the wobble in her legs from working out (and probably a bit of nerves) and grabs her water bottle before heading towards the door, trying not to look at him even though she kinda, sorta wants to.</p><p>Like, a bit.</p><p>“Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so happy on a treadmill.” His voice is low, a little rough with breathlessness and it spikes through her like she missed a step on a staircase.</p><p>She blinks at him, hoping she doesn’t look completely tired and worn from her workout, but she’s sure, if the quick glance in the mirror is true, she’s sweaty and dishevelled and <em>oh my God,</em> she thinks,<em> run away, Sofie. Now’s the time to run away.</em></p><p>His hair is dark and thick, sweat-damp around his temples, and he rubs his hand over his mouth where’s a crooked sort of smile that makes it looks like he’s trying not to laugh. Sofie feels her pulse tick up and tries to remember how to fake it. She’s not an actor, not at all, but she’s been to enough of her mother’s medical conferences and fundraisers to know how to fake it, just a little.</p><p>“It’s sorta mean to laugh at people, you know,” she says, crossing her arms and ignoring the thump-bump of her heart and the sweatiness of her palms; the nervous little tremor that’s one part thrill and one part <em>oh my God, no.</em></p><p>He laughs, his smirk spreading into a wider smile as he steps closer, leaning against the wall near the door and crossing his arms. <em>Big arms,</em> she thinks, <em>big thick—</em> “You were just so into it, I was impressed. What were you listening to?”</p><p><em>Maybe I hit my head, </em>she thinks,<em> maybe I fell off the treadmill and this is like, all a dream. A concussion dream. Concussion dreaming, is that a thing? This can’t really be happening. This isn’t really Henry Cavill.</em></p><p>Sinking her teeth into her cheek, Sofie debates answering him, <em>what’s the point,</em> she thinks, <em>what do you think is going to happen?</em></p><p><em>Nothing</em>, she tells herself. <em>Absolutely nothing.</em></p><p>It’s in that thought, she finds herself relaxing, thumbing open her lock screen and scrolling to the top of her playlist. “It’s um, a bunch of different stuff. Like, upbeat, happy stuff, you know? Like Queen and Dolly Parton and uhm, Abba.”</p><p>His eyebrows inch up, his mouth twitching with another smile. “That’s not what was I expecting. <em>Abba</em>?”</p><p>“They’re <em>catchy</em>,” she defends, moving to lock her phone when his hand comes out, large and thick-fingered, on her wrist. It sparks, like a little electric current and she has to bite her cheek to stay still, to swallow the instinct to pull back.</p><p>He laughs. “Is that right? Maybe it’ll give me some tips on how to make it through my cardio.”</p><p>Sofie swallows and eases her grip, turning her hand as his hand falls away, leaving cold skin where he’d touched her briefly. She looks up at him and she wonders how tall he is because he feels <em>massive</em> over her, (not that there’s a lot of her to begin with, but <em>still—</em>) and she isn’t sure what to do with that feeling in her stomach.</p><p><em>How old is he?</em> <em>No. Don’t think that. Stop thinking that. Stop it, Sofie.</em></p><p>She offers him her phone and watches the thick of his hand swallow up the pink case, watches his thumb slide over the screen, his lips twitching up more as he scrolls.</p><p>“Elton John, Katrina and the Waves… Elvis—” he laughs, a rolling sort of chuckle that makes her bite her cheek. “Ah, there’s Lady Gaga, that’s definitely more what I was expecting.”</p><p>“I thought British men were supposed to be polite,” she huffs, crossing her arms again, her toes curling in her sneakers when his eyes flick to hers and that crooked smile slowly spreads on his face.</p><p>
  <em>That’s not a flirting look, is it? No. Nope, it can’t be.</em>
</p><p>“That’s a nasty rumour, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” he teases, handing her Sofie her phone back and straightening off the wall and holding out his hand. “Henry.”</p><p>Sofie looks down at it, blinking at it like she isn’t really sure this is actually happening. “Sofie,” she says, as her fingers slide along his palm and then his hand is closing around hers and she’s pretty sure it’s like, twice the size of hers.</p><p>Fucking <em>Superman</em>, she thinks.<em><br/></em></p><p>“What do you lis—” she starts, but the door beside them opens and a woman leans in, her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, her eyes narrowed and darting over Sofie before ignoring her completely.</p><p>She tries not to be offended, but she does feel a little bit like a piece of gum stuck to a shoe in the weight of the woman's clear dismissal.</p><p>“We need to leave in an hour,” the woman says, her eyes narrowing. “Traffic is shite in the city, remember?”</p><p><em>Yeah,</em> he grunts, pushing off the wall. “I’ll be up in the room in thirty, don’t worry.”</p><p>She stares hard at him for another minute, and Sofie's almost positive there's some sort of silent communication going on, before the woman is huffing a breath and pressing her lips together and stepping back out of the gym, her voice demanding and no-nonsense when she calls out: “<em>Twenty-five, Henry.”</em></p><p>He pulls in a breath and drags a hand through his hair; Sofie feels like something shifted, like a bubble popped… like something broke the moment and leaves it a little awkward.</p><p>Which is <em>fine,</em> she tells herself, <em>since this is just</em>… <em>nothing</em>.</p><p>“I should finish up,” he says, his shoulder shrugging back towards the weights. Sofie nods, biting her cheek and stepping back and towards the door.</p><p>“Nice to meet you,” she says and pulls an awkward sort of smile. "Have fun."</p><p>He nods, stepping back and Sofie’s turning away, her hand on the door, already thinking, <em>that didn’t really happen did it?</em> when she hears his voice again, picking up the weights he’d left behind to talk to her.</p><p>“You staying here for long? At the hotel, I mean.”</p><p>She glances back at him, feeling the drag of her ponytail along the sweat-sticky nape of her neck. He's looking at her, his eyes blue, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.</p><p>“I do cardio in the mornings, at six. If you’re around. You could show me if that playlist is as good as you made it seem,” he says easily, loosely with a slow smile that matches the slide of his voice and makes her stomach twist.</p><p><em>Oh, </em>her mind blanks as she blinks at him, waiting for her alarm to ring, or for her to wake up with a doctor’s little shiny light in her eye, asking her how many fingers they’re holding up.</p><p>When none of that happens, she nods and swallows, tightening her hand on the door handle. “Try not to insult anyone else’s workout ‘til then, yeah?”</p><p>When he laughs, his head tilting back, Sofie takes a moment to watch the shift of his throat and the width of his shoulders, biting her lip and slipping out into the hotel hallway.</p><p><em>Oh my God, </em>she thinks, pressing a hand against her stomach and blowing out a breath into the quiet hall. <em>That didn't just happen?</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>another one bites the dust</p><p>I promise this is like, gonna be hella smutty, probably starting next chapter, just had to set some stuff up because some plot+porn is better than no plot+porn, at least in my most humble and valued opinion.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                <em>Don’t do it,</em> Sofie tells herself,<em> don’t do it. Don’t think about it, don’t—</em></p><p> </p><p>But she’s bundled up in her pyjamas, her hair wrapped up in a towel, her phone in her hand and her finger on the home button as the tv glows silently, blue light flickering over the hotel room.</p><p>
  <em>Don’t do it.</em>
</p><p>Her mother is still out, dining with colleagues and friends at a dinner Sofie had begged out of... and now wishes, <em>maybe</em>, that she had gone too, just so she could get her mind off of… <em>him.</em></p><p> </p><p>She’s typing his name into the search bar before she really even realises she's doing it, her thumb hesitating over the links, the images, Instagram—</p><p>and then she locks the screen again, chewing on her cheek while feeling like a creep.</p><p>She drops her phone on the bed beside her, reaching for the tv remote and flipping muted channels without really paying attention to anything actually <em>on</em> the screen.</p><p>It takes thirty minutes until she can’t stop herself again, unlocking her phone and scrolling back over the page. Somehow, it actually helps remind her that he’s… well, <em>Henry Cavill </em>and she’s a twenty-one-year-old who still tags along on her mother’s business trips.</p><p>With a long breath, Sofie sets her phone down shuts off the tv, sinking deeper beneath the thick duvet and into the fresh, hotel-smelling sheets.</p><p>It only takes her one toss and turn in the soft bed before she’s pushing up with a huff and reaching for her phone again… and setting her alarm for five-thirty.</p><p>She doesn't let herself think about it, doesn't let herself second guess it, just sets the alarm and rolls back over with his voice in her head as she closes her eyes: <em>at six. If you’re around. You could show me if that playlist is as good as you made it seem. </em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>* *</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                It’s not that she’s <em>trying</em> she thinks as she yanks out her ponytail and gathers her hair again, it was just too <em>loose.</em> She’s definitely not trying, it’s just the gym. He probably won’t even be there. He probably completely forgot about that whole… whole <em>moment</em>… right after it happened.</p><p>‘Cause, you know, <em>Henry Cavill.</em></p><p>He probably dates models, right? <em>God, Sofie, stop thinking about him like that, someone can be friendly without being like… into someone.</em></p><p><em>Exactly</em>, she tells herself, friendliness is next to godliness… or something like that.</p><p>She eyes her mascara lying on the vanity next to the sink and then makes herself ignore it, splashing more cold water on her face and blowing out a breath into the towel.</p><p>
  <em>Stop being ridiculous, he probably won’t even be there.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                And he’s not.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And Sofie <em>isn’t </em>disappointed. At all.</p><p> </p><p>She runs as the sun comes up, blasting her happy tunes until she can laugh at herself and ignore that tiny, tiny little bit of her that might be just a little bit disappointed.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>* *</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                The hotel lounge-slash-bar is busy with guests coming and going for the evening. Sofie sighs and slouches against the wall while her mother talks to one of her colleagues, a Doctor Parish, if she heard right.</p><p>She tells herself again, that this is the last trip she’s coming on, time to grow up and stop giving in to whatever her mother wants her to do.</p><p><em>Really, Sof-bee</em> <em>, what else are you going to do, hm? Sit at home all week? If you’d just agree to go back to school like I asked, then you wouldn’t be in this position, would you?</em></p><p><em>Probably not,</em> Sofie thinks, but then, she’d be stuck in medical school when she really doesn’t think that that’s what she wants to do with the rest of her life. And what’s worse? Her mother giving her those ‘<em>I’m just so disappointed’</em> looks or giving up her whole life just to appease her mother?</p><p>Not that she has any idea what she wants to <em>do</em> with her life. It’s just the principle of it.</p><p>She’s biting back a yawn, waiting for her mother to finish her conversation (and deciding if maybe she can slip away and get a drink) and looking over the lounge while watching the people come and go when she glances at the bar and finds someone looking <em>back</em> at her.</p><p>Not someone, <em>him.</em> <em>He’s</em> leaning against the bar, wearing a dark navy suit jacket with a dark shirt beneath it…and the winding, white-gold light above the bar makes his skin glow and his hair shine and Sofie—</p><p>Feels her heart trip in her chest even as her mind cringes with embarrassment for how she’s standing, slouched like a teenager against the wall of the hotel lounge, trying to sink behind a potted plant.</p><p>She pushes up, barely resisting the urge to straighten her dress and wincing at the rustle and shake of the plant at her side; she glances at him again, finding his eyes still on her, a clear drink in his hand, the glass sparkling as he lifts it to his mouth to take a sip.</p><p>She’s like, pretty damn sure that’s a smirk on his lips.</p><p>Feeling her cheeks warm, Sofie excuses herself, barely hearing what her mother says to her, crossing the marble hallway and heading towards the bathrooms… and out of sight for a minute or like, <em>ten, </em>she thinks, until her nerves calm down and her cheeks feel a little bit less like they’re on fire.</p><p>The bathroom is chilly, flowery smelling and there’s a woman at the sink, washing her hands and then drying them, barely sparing her a glance as Sofie pushes into a stall just to avoid standing at the sink for no reason.</p><p>She doesn’t even have to <em>pee</em>.</p><p>Pushing out a breath, Sofie closes her eyes and counts to ten, then counts back down to zero and waits for the click of heels over the floor and the gentle thunk of the bathroom door shutting before she slips back out of the stall and goes to the sink.</p><p>Blinking at herself in the mirror, she tilts her head as she washes her hands and then waits for the water to run as cold as it can go before bringing her cold fingers up to her cheeks. <em>Could you’ve run away any faster,</em> she berates herself,<em> so lame, Sofie.</em></p><p>She eyes herself in the mirror, wondering now if he was really just looking at someone behind her. <em>That has to be it,</em> she tells herself, he didn’t show up that morning, and why would he, really? Sofie knows she’s not ugly, that she's pretty enough, in like, a cute kind of way… but not in a model, Instagram-babe kind of way. Not in an <em>actress</em> kind of way.</p><p>And really, she tried not to Google him much, but she’s pretty sure if he has a type it would be more like… who’s in Superman? Amy Adams. Gal Gadot.</p><p><em>Shit,</em> she thinks, <em>get a grip.</em></p><p>With that thought, she realises she’s just staring at herself in the mirror, her hands warm now on her cheeks and the water still running. With a huff, she shuts it off and runs her hands through her hair before righting the sit of her wrap dress. (And almost wishes that she’d worn the slightly tighter, slightly more revealing dress that her mother had shot down.) Which is stupid, seeing as she’s not trying to impress <em>anyone,</em> especially not all those, wandering-eye older doctors that make up so many of her mother’s colleagues.</p><p>I mean, how could she know Superman would like, <em>exist</em>? As a real <em>person</em>.</p><p><em>Ugh,</em> she thinks and pushes away from the sinks and towards the bathroom door, hauling it open and still feeling like an idiot when she comes face to face with—</p><p>Fucking<em> Superman.</em></p><p>“Uh,” she says, her heel scratching the marble with a weird squeak as she stops abruptly, just outside of the doors, because he’s leaning against the wall, his hands tucked into his pants pocket, <em>waiting.</em></p><p>For her?</p><p>Not for her.</p><p>She glances back over her shoulder, but it’s just the bathroom door. The empty bathroom. She just came out of. Alone.</p><p><em>Wait</em>.</p><p>“Hullo,” he says, with that rolling-low voice with a hint of an accent caught even just in that little word. “I wanted to apologise—” he starts, but cuts off when a woman passes, frowning at Sofie, who’s still standing in front of the bathroom door and then glances at the man standing near her and does a double-take.</p><p><em>Yeah lady</em>, <em>me too.</em></p><p>“Shite,” he pushes out, almost too low for her to hear and tilts his head towards one of the curved walls that lead to the elevators. “Do you mind?”</p><p><em>Uh,</em> Sofie thinks, but follows the lift of his hand that implies a silent sort of: <em>after you.</em></p><p>There are still a few people passing, but most head right to the elevators without looking back at the two of them, pressed closer to the curved wall. It goes quiet for a beat too long, a stretch of the hotel-lobby music and the mechanical slide of elevator doors.</p><p>Mister Superman says nothing.</p><p>Sofie’s pretty sure she’s going to die, any minute now, because it’s stretching into awkward and she has no fucking <em>clue</em> what to say to him that isn’t, <em>you’re Superman! You were hot as fuck in Man From Uncle.</em></p><p>His lips twitch, and he lifts a large hand and scratches the short, late-night stubble on his cheek before rubbing a hand over his jaw and dropping his hand back down. His eyes shift, just a little, over her face. She has no idea what he's looking at or for... but she can't help but look right back at him.</p><p>“I didn’t mean to stand you up,” he says and Sofie blinks, because <em>what</em>?</p><p>“You didn’t— I mean, what?”</p><p>His lips twitch again. “This morning. I was on my way to the gym but I got a call and sometimes…” he shrugs, pushing out a breath. “In the least prick-ish way I can say this… you know who I am, yeah?”</p><p>Sofie nods. <em>Yup, fucking Superman.</em></p><p>He nods. “Right, well… Sometimes I don’t always get last say on how my day goes. I did plan on meeting you there.”</p><p>Sofie blinks. “That’s… I mean. I wasn’t like, waiting…” <em>Lies,</em> she totally did. She ran and spent more time lunging and lifting baby-weights than she will ever admit.</p><p><em>Ever</em>.</p><p>He nods. “I still felt terrible. You looked—happy, I thought I’d hate to be the reason you weren’t.”</p><p>Her stomach does something funny at that, a little roll that tingles through her because as far as like, <em>lines</em> go, that was pretty smooth.</p><p>She doesn’t even think it was a <em>line.</em></p><p>Was it?</p><p>“So I was thinking—” there’s a high laugh, one Sofie knows probably better than her own and she instinctively presses closer to him, closer to one of the big green plants that sit behind him, just as her mother comes around the curve, still chatting to Doctor Parish, or whatever his names is, as they step in front of the elevators and he presses one of the buttons, his arm curving around her waist and skimming her mother’s ass.</p><p>“Gross,” she mutters, her nose scrunching.</p><p>“You know them?” Henry asks, his voice pitched lower and Sofie realises just how close she’s standing to him as the elevator doors open and her mother steps inside, Doctor Parish pulling her closer in a way Sofie is both thankful for and grossed out by.</p><p>“It’s…” she sighs, because she doesn’t want to lie, even if it makes her feel young and more than a little lame. She glances up at him, wincing as she says it. “My mother.”</p><p>There’s a pause, he looks down at her, his eyes darting to the doors just as they slide shut. “Ah.”</p><p>She takes a second to look at his jaw, the stubble, the inky black of his shirt against his skin, the thick of his neck and—</p><p>She glances up at him again, pretty sure he caught her staring.</p><p>It goes quiet again, she’s still standing too close, she thinks, but can’t make herself move. He smells <em>good.</em></p><p>He pulls in a breath and his eyes shift minutely like he’s looking for something in her face. And then he looks away, dragging a hand over his mouth and rubbing his lips like he’s thinking something over before he looks back at her again. “I’m going to sound like an arse here, but… how old are you?”</p><p>She can’t really blame him for asking, she did Google him after all. She definitely has an advantage. “Uh, twenty-one?” she says, almost like a question.</p><p>There’s a little wince on his face he schools quickly before he shakes his head, a slow smile spreading on his face that’s just a bit disappointed. “I was hoping you just had a bit of a young face.”</p><p>Sofie feels her insides sink. <em>Right</em>, she thinks, because he’s what, thirty-four?</p><p>She bites her cheek, waiting. For what, she isn’t sure, she just knows that she kind of enjoys his eyes on her, that heart-trippy feeling of them looking at her, that little shift of his gaze over her face...</p><p>But he steps back, a little shake of his head, his lips still quirked up on one side in a way that’s playing at a humour she isn’t sure is entirely true.</p><p>“Right,” he sighs, tucking his hands in his pants pockets again. “I just wanted to apologise, Sofie. I hope you have a good holiday with your parents.”</p><p>It takes a lot of effort to not show the plummeting, disappointed feeling inside of her, forcing a smile even as she tells herself it’s not like she expected anything different. He was being <em>nice. </em>He was being a gentleman, right? He has like… an image.</p><p>Right?</p><p>“Thanks, you too. I mean—” she forces out as he steps back again, his smile tugging a little wider, but still not <em>quite</em> true. It <em>sucks. </em>“I hope you have a good uh, stay.”</p><p>He gives her a nod, turning away, his shoulders broad, his hair dark…</p><p><em>What did you expect, Sof-bee</em><em>,</em> her mother says in her head,<em> what did you think was going to happen, really? You never apply yourself.</em></p><p>“Hey,” she calls out, just as he’s starting to walk away. He glances back and Sofie looks around quickly, making sure no one can hear her because she’s sure she sounds stupid and more than a little desperate. “That wasn’t true. I did wait.”</p><p>He doesn’t react but she thinks about how he looked in the gym, the way his gaze feels, the way he remembers her <em>name—</em></p><p>His smile tugs up, making his eye crinkle as he looks back at her and then his tongue darts out to wet his lips and there’s the briefest pause, the quickest hesitation—</p><p>And he glances around too, before turning to face her completely, taking a few, slow steps backwards with his hands still in his pockets. “I’ll be there by five-thirty tomorrow morning, got a thing at eight. If you’re around.”</p><p>Sofie bites her cheek, but the smile spreads anyway, a little bubble of something bright in her stomach. He grins at her, shaking his head before turning away again.</p><p>She definitely doesn’t watch him go, because that would be creepy, she thinks, and like, <em>thirsty</em>, so she presses her back against the wall and covers her face with her hands, blowing out a little airy laugh filled with nerves and excitement.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>* *</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Five comes way too early, especially since she’s like, 100% sure that connecting doors between hotel rooms are not made to be as soundproof as they should be, and no matter that both her door and her mother’s was shut and locked, Sofie’s pretty damn sure her mother didn’t spend the night alone. Or like, watching porn.</p><p>Doctor Parish can apparently lay some pipe.</p><p>She showers quickly, in slightly too-cold water to help her wake up, not bothering to wash her hair and yawning through the whole thing. She chugs back one of the mini-red bulls in the mini-fridge and scrubs her teeth till they hurt.</p><p>She still doesn’t bother with mascara, because she doesn’t want to be like, <em>hopeful</em> about all of this, right, that would be <em>stupid..</em>. and he’s already seen her without, so… her stomach twists and flutters and it takes her three tries to get her leg through the spandex of her leggings and get them settled before she tugs on a sports-bra and t-shirt— before stripping the t-shirt off for a tank top and then adding a sweat-wicking jacket.</p><p><em>Okay, that’s enough</em>, she tells herself, glancing at the clock and cursing a little, 5:27.</p><p>She’s out the door before she can second guess anything else, phone in hand.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                And he’s there, this time.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sofie grins before she can stop herself, her cheeks burning when he smiles back.</p><p>“Hullo,” he drawls, still rough with sleep and Sofie thinks, <em>oh, fuck you,</em> because it’s not really fair to be that attractive and she’s really regretting the whole lack of mascara thing right now.</p><p>“Hi,” she says, stopping a few steps from him, even though they’re outside of the gym, the hallway is empty this early in the morning. His eyes flick over her quickly and it’s getting harder to pretend he isn’t interested, even though part of her brain keeps screaming at her to be realistic about the whole thing. To remember who he is and who she is and… that look on his face when she said she was twenty-one.</p><p>“I wondered if you might be game for running the trail in the park with me instead of the treadmill. I don’t get many chances when I’m here to run outdoors. I figure we’re early enough, and—” he taps the baseball cap he has in his other hand against his thigh— “I might be able to get away with it.”</p><p>Sofie smiles and nods, and Superman— <em>Henry</em>, she thinks— lifts his arm like he did the night before and tilts his head back down the way she came. They head out, in silence, towards the lobby and then out the front doors, no one around except the staff until they’re at the street. New York is never as quiet as any other place would be, this early in the morning. But seeing as the hotel overlooks Central Park, it only takes a moment for them to get out of the stupid-early-morning bustle and onto one of the paths in Central Park.</p><p>She isn’t sure what to say to him, what questions are safe to ask, if he even wants conversation so much as—</p><p>Well, she really has no idea what he wants. At all.</p><p>A running partner? A diversion from being apparently alone on a trip? A hook—</p><p>
  <em>Nope, nope, don’t think about that.</em>
</p><p>He stops beside her, and his hand touches her arm, just briefly. When she turns to face him, he’s holding out something small and white that looks like a bit of rope between them.</p><p>“Bought this the other day,” he says as she takes the small cord and frowns at it, feeling him watching her. “Thought it might make things easier for you to show me those <em>catchy</em> tunes.”</p><p> <em>Oh,</em> she thinks, as she realises what it is. “You bought a headphone splitter?”</p><p>He nods, shrugging one heavy shoulder. “Hopefully it works.”</p><p>She breathes out a short laugh, sticking one end in her earbuds and waiting for him to offer the other end of his. She doesn’t look up at him for a minute, fidgeting with the cord, feeling suddenly very short and very nervous standing in front of him while he unwinds his own earbuds.</p><p>A woman passes on the trail, her runners pounding a steady patting sound in the quiet (outside of the distant traffic and horns already starting.)</p><p>“You bought this the other day?” she asks, glancing up at him.</p><p>He nods. “Told you. I planned on showing up.”</p><p>Sofie bites her lip, thumbing open her phone and Spotify, but she’s pretty sure she’s not fooling anyone biting back the smile trying to break out on her face. “You can’t make fun of any of the songs.”</p><p>He laughs. “I can’t promise that.”</p><p>She laughs and can’t quite stop herself before her hand is out and slapping the thick of his arm. “Rude.”</p><p>“I mean, <em>Abba</em>, really?”</p><p><em>Shut up,</em> she groans, dropping her head back, but lets him slip the phone from her hand, ignoring the fluttering of her pulse and nerves at the touch of his fingers against hers.</p><p>“You going to lip sync for me too?” he teases, looking down at her, glancing between the screen and her face. “I liked that part.”</p><p>“I only sing along to Abba,” she huffs, even though they both know that’s a lie and it isn’t long before she’s jogging in front of him, the length of the cords between them, turning to mouth along to Benny and the Jets while he huffs a breathless laugh and tugs the cord to bring her back into step beside him.</p><p>The song ends, and she glances up at him, their arms brushing as he glances down at her, a crooked smile still on his face that grows wider and spills into a crinkly-eyed laugh when Abba really does come on next and Sofie acts extra excited for the song, getting ready to sing along, breathless and sweaty and all.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hoped you enjoy, lemme know what you think :)<br/>The smut will come soon, i promise</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sofie half skips a step, trying to keep up with his pace, even though she thinks he’s just <em>walking,</em> it’s just that his legs are probably twice the length of hers and one step for him is like, <em>two</em> for her.</p><p>He looks down at her, adjusting the ballcap on his head, his dark hair sticking out from beneath it, curled a little in a way she didn’t know it could.</p><p>She didn’t like, creep his <em>hair</em> when she Googled him or anything. It was a very <em>reserved</em> sort of Google-Creep.</p><p>His lips twitch and he looks away, looking out ahead of them as Queen starts up in their ears and Columbus Circle comes into view. With it, Sofie knows there’s not much time left, it’ll be the street then the hotel and then… she’ll just be Sofie and he’ll be…</p><p>Well, Henry fucking Cavill.</p><p>His pace slows a little, she can’t help but notice, seeing as it’s easier to keep in line with him while walking now; it’s not as awkward as she thinks it should be, walking beside him and not talking, she isn’t sure if it’s the music, or the cord swinging between them, wrapped around his fist in a way that keeps them closer together than the length of the combined cords would probably allow.</p><p>Maybe it’s the city moving around them, or that they’re both still breathing a little hard, or maybe it’s just a workout thing, there’s not a lot that’s more bonding than sweating in someone’s personal space, is there?</p><p>Which is a mental image she doesn’t need to think about, at all. Because there’s another way to get sweaty with someone, and she’d be lying if her mind was currently spinning through a carousel of ideas.</p><p>She pushes the thoughts away, pushing her lips together and glancing out the corner of her eye at his body beside hers as they walk. Her mind rolls into wondering how they’re going to part ways, what she’s going to say to him, if she wants to try to see him again—</p><p>Will he ask to meet up again, like last time?</p><p>Or should she?</p><p>Is there a point in trying?</p><p>There’s a tug on the cord and when she glances at him, he’s got one earbud out, looking down at her as they walk. Sofie tugs on the bud in her left ear.</p><p>“You’re going to have to send me this playlist,” he pushes out, his breath evening out as they cool down.</p><p>Her chest fills with something a little bit proud and she laughs, swinging the one loose earbud around her finger, turning and walking backwards a few paces to look at him with a grin rather than craning her neck up at him. “It was the Abba, wasn’t it? Be honest.”</p><p>He laughs. “It definitely was not the Abba, Abba is still terrible.”</p><p>Sofie pouts and turns, falling back into step beside him. “You’re a liar. Abba is catchy, I saw you smiling through it.”</p><p>He huffs a laugh, though it’s not quite a laugh, something disbelieving in it and it makes her look up at him again, but he’s not looking at her. His smile goes crooked rather than toothy and wide and he shakes his head, pushing out a breath.  “Definitely wasn’t because of Abba.”</p><p>He’s quiet for a beat too long and Sofie feels something curl warm and fluttery in her stomach; she bites her lip when he looks down at her, and something unwinds and wraps tighter inside of her, and she wants to ask what he means, but she thinks she might know, somehow.</p><p>He looks away first, shaking his head again, his chest moving with a deep breath.</p><p>Sofie steals another moment of looking at him before tearing her eyes away and watching the mostly even stride they fall into, even though she suspects he has to force himself to slow down.</p><p>She bites her cheek, pleased at the idea, half-distracted by her own thoughts, letting him lead her back toward the hotel, which isn’t anything more than a third way around Columbus Circle and up a street when she feels him stop beside her.</p><p>“Shite,” he curses, tugging the other earbud out of his ear. Sofie follows suit and doesn’t say anything when he turns towards her and gives her an apologetic smile. “Don’t suppose if you know of any other famous people staying at the hotel, hm?”</p><p>She has to lean around him to see what he means, but when she does, it’s to the sight of a group of people, <em>mostly women</em> she thinks, standing outside the front of the hotel, and she’s sure, in the mass of them there’s more than a few bulky, shiny black cameras that are probably paparazzi rather than just fans.</p><p>“It’s probably just a fan club, they’re harmless, really. I promise,” he says and she tears her eyes away from the crowd and looks up at him, finding his eyes already on her, an apology clear on his face.</p><p>Sofie is suddenly very aware of her makeup-free face and her sweaty workout clothes and the size of him next to her.</p><p>The city moves around them, and though she’s sure at least one person recognised him, no one’s done so much as given them more than an annoyed glance for stopping at the edge of the street.</p><p>But up ahead…<em> that’s different, </em>she thinks<em>.</em> Those are cameras and fans and she’s seen those paparazzi shots online, hell she <em>creeped</em> him in a few last night—</p><p>“Uhm,” she says and sinks her teeth into her cheek.</p><p>His head tilts a little, his eyes narrowing like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on her head when Sofie isn’t even entirely sure <em>she</em> knows what’s going on in her head.</p><p>She just really isn’t down with the whole… photography thing.</p><p>His lips twitch and he’s wrapping the length of the cord around his hand until Sofie is numbly lifting her phone from her jacket pocket and watching him wind up all the cord and hand it back to her.</p><p>And then he takes off his cap, his hair mussed and sweaty and somehow, he looks stupid-attractive even though he absolutely <em>shouldn’t.</em> And Sofie can’t really think about anything other than his body stepping closer to hers and the way he tugs the cap onto her head, tugging her ponytail out the back hole and then adjusting the loose slump of it with a crooked smile all in a few seconds.</p><p>“Uhm,” she says again and tries to ignore the twisting in her stomach when his hand tugs a little on her ponytail again, making her head tilt up to look at him.</p><p>“I’ll go first,” he says easily, and she isn’t sure what else his in his face, something entertained but something… searching too, something curious, maybe. “Distract them. You can slip by, they won’t bother you, I promise. Keep your head down, they won’t expect me coming in from outside, they probably think I’m inside.”</p><p>He taps the rim of the cap. She thinks it should be gross, because it’s warm from his head, sweaty-rimmed from their run, but for some reason, it makes her feel… <em>sticky</em>. Hot. </p><p>Really <em>good.</em></p><p>They’re still standing too close, she’s sure there’re more people noticing him now and he must realise it too, so he takes a step back, standing straighter and tilts his head up the street towards the hotel. There’s a <em>let’s go,</em> in the motion and Sofie tucks her hands in her jacket, the wrapped cord around her phone making it bulky and awkward in her grip.</p><p>She starts walking, overly aware of him in front of her and the looming presence of the cameras and crowd of women ahead. She tries not to watch his shoulders, or stare at him, tilting her head down to hide beneath the rim of the ballcap.</p><p>“How long are you in the city for?” His voice is low ahead of her and he doesn’t look back; it doesn’t look like they’re walking together and her spine eases a little.</p><p>“Four more days,” she says, keeping her steps steady, her hand too-tight on her phone and the cord wrapped around it, staying in his shadow, just in case any pictures get taken.</p><p>“See you tomorrow?” he asks just before they’re too close to the crowd and he risks a glance back and catches her eyes just as the first <em>oh my God</em> starts up ahead of them and she’s ducking her head again, only knowing that she’d rather sit through three of her mother’s lectures than be photographed and screamed at the way the crowd swells up as they all start to notice the man in front of her.</p><p>The camera clicks start and Sofie darts towards the hotel entrance, telling herself not to look back at him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>         She spends an hour of staring at the white of her hotel room ceiling, her pulse still beating a little bit too high and her body a little bit too warm, before she remembers she’s still wearing his ballcap.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>* *</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                 The next morning, it takes her all of ten seconds, seeing him standing outside the gym door, wearing a different ballcap, to realise she forgot the one he gave her yesterday.</p><p>She’d stashed it in the drawer, not wanting her mother to see and ask about it, about why Sofie had it, or where it came from… she can’t really imagine her mother would love the idea that her daughter was thirsting after a thirty-four-year-old man, celebrity or not.</p><p>Actually, Sofie’s pretty sure she’d hate that he was a celebrity more than she'd have an issue with the age part of it.</p><p>“Fuck,” she curses, wincing. “I forgot your cap, give me a sec and I’ll run—”</p><p>He shakes his head, a smile tugging up one side of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“Really, it’s not a big deal,” he laughs, moving towards her. “You still okay with hitting the Park?”</p><p>She nods, chewing her lip. “Are you sure about the hat?”</p><p>He laughs. “Positive. It looks cuter on you, anyway.”</p><p>She feels her cheeks burn, ducking her head a little, but she’s pretty sure the smile on her face is as obvious as her blush.</p><p>“You okay with going out the side entrance? Takes a little longer but we can avoid anyone that might be hanging around out front.”</p><p>She shakes her head. “This happen a lot? The whole, waiting outside thing?”</p><p>He pushes off the wall, leading her through the hallways, she doesn’t ask how he knows where he’s going, assuming he’s done this before, figured out alternate routes to avoid… what’d he call it, the fan club?</p><p>“Not so much, someone probably leaked it, honestly.”</p><p>She frowns, looking up at him, but he’s got his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, looking ahead.  “Leaked it?”</p><p>He glances down at her, a crooked smile on his mouth. “Probably.”</p><p>“Like someone you work with?”</p><p>“Probably.” He laughs. “Sofie, you look very offended on my behalf.”</p><p>She looks away, crossing her arms and frowning at the floor. “That’s sort of… I mean, why would they do that?”</p><p>He shrugs. “It’s the business. Press is press, fans are fans. It’s fine most of the time, sign a few autographs, smile a bit, they’ll be happy, and they’ll get my face in the news or in tabloids or whatever and… you know. It makes the machine run.”</p><p>There’s a pause before he adds: “I didn’t know they’d be there though, I wasn’t trying to… I wouldn’t have taken you through the front if I’d thought they’d be there.”</p><p><em>Right</em>, she thinks, because how would that look, really?</p><p>What’d he say? <em>I was hoping you just had a young face.</em></p><p>She frowns at nothing, something twinging in her chest, wondering what she’s doing here, what <em>they’re </em>doing here… she isn’t really the kind of girl you want your star to be photographed next to, right? She wonders if that’s why he gave her his ballcap, or if it really was because he saw she was uncomfortable.</p><p>Does it matter?</p><p><em>No</em>, she tells herself, so they’re running together, <em>big deal.</em> Maybe he’s a little… friendly, but he hasn’t really <em>actually tried</em> anything. And if he wanted, she thinks, he has to know that she’d say yes, or rather that <em>any</em> girl would say yes.</p><p>So, he’s probably just being nice. Probably just a bit lonely, or something.</p><p>Right?</p><p>She wonders if it’d be different if she was older.</p><p>“You alright there, Sofie?”</p><p>She jolts a little, lost in her head, pushing out a surprised laugh and uncrossing her arms while forcing a smile. “Yeah, sorry, I spaced a bit.”</p><p>He looks at her, pushing one arm out to hold open the door ahead, the city sounds and smells hitting them instantly even this early in the morning, his arm thick, his body half-filling the doorway.</p><p>She kind of wishes he wasn’t just being nice.</p><p>Lie, she thinks, she <em>wants</em> him to <em>not</em> be nice.</p><p>She sinks her teeth into her cheek, trying to ignore the heat of his body when she steps through the door and brushes too close to him. Tries to ignore the way he glances at her; the way their hands brush as she unwinds the headphone splitter and connects their phones together.</p><p>Tries to not to overthink anything when he gives her his number, his body too large, too close— too close to hers, his voice low and the world sort of… fading around her, but for him in front of her.</p><p>The share link with the playlist flies off with a little woosh of a notification, and Sofie pockets her phone, glancing up at him.</p><p>He’s already looking at her. It’s hard not to look away, hard not to blurt out the question on her tongue, which is nothing more than a jumble of <em>I’d really like to climb you like a tree </em>and <em>twenty-one is totally legal, like everywhere in the world, you know that, right?</em></p><p>Sofie knows she doesn’t have like, a whole lot of worldly-experience, and she isn’t even sure if she’d ever even tell <em>anyone— </em>because who would believe her, really— and she wouldn’t want it to feel… <em>cheap.</em> She just…</p><p>She has no idea, really. It’s all just a fantasy, isn’t it?</p><p>“You got any other playlists on there?”</p><p>She nods, licking her lips, trying not to wonder if he just looked at her lips or not. “Yeah, it’s… I got one for all sorts of things.”</p><p>He lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah?”</p><p>She nods, fiddling with her phone and opening the Spotify library. “Happy running songs, sad songs, oldies, dancing songs…”</p><p>“Dancing songs?” There’s a twitch to his lips, the edge of a teasing smile.</p><p>“Like, when you need to let loose, you know? Maybe dance in your underwear, or Tom Cruise It and slide over some hardwood floors.”</p><p>He laughs. “Tom Cruise It?”</p><p>“Risky Business, you know? It’s a Thing. That’s what we call it. My friends and me, I mean.” She can’t stop her own smile from spreading. “Sometimes you gotta make yourself happy. Even if that’s just like, dancing in your underwear.”</p><p>He smiles slips from laughter to something else, something warmer, something that twists in her stomach and her pulse as he looks at her. “Underwear, huh?”</p><p>His phone rings, a trill of a noise that breaks the moment and he pushes out a breath and thumbs across the screen, glancing at her quickly. “Sorry, just give me a minute?”</p><p>He doesn’t step away, but Sofie looks away, feeling a bit like a voyeur even though she’s pretty sure he’s still looking at her.</p><p>“Yeah. I know. I told you I’d be back by then. Eight, mmhm…”</p><p>Sofie scuffs her shoe on the pavement, edging away but watching the white of the cord of the earphone splitter winding around his palm, tightening the cord, pulling her back towards him.</p><p>“I already told him I’d go. But not with anyone. I don’t care if they think I should… Mel— I’m going to hang up now, I still have to weight train and eat before the shoot. Yeah. I’ll see you in a few hours.”</p><p>He pushes out a breath when he hangs up, plugging in the cord again. “Sorry,” he sighs, “Assistant. She’s great at her job, and I’d probably be lost without her, but she’s a bit… well, she’s very organised, you know?”</p><p><em>Not really</em>, Sofie thinks but nods anyway. She could only wish she was more organised, had <em>A Plan</em>, or even like<em>, A Clue.</em></p><p>Sofie’s twenty-one and only just learning how to say no to her own mother, she can’t imagine knowing her own life enough to make <em>plans.</em> As nice of a dream as that is.</p><p>“We should get going then, right?” she says, forcing a smile. “Sounds like you’ve got a busy day, and I don’t think I can help much with the weight training part.”</p><p>“No?” He smiles as they turn and start walking again, heading across the street and out from the shadow of the building. “You don’t want to be my spotter?”</p><p>Sofie laughs. “Pretty sure your weights are a little out of my league, you know? Unless you were like, lifting me, I think I’d be pretty useless to you.”</p><p>He laughs, his head tilting back. “I’m pretty sure I’d need four of you. How much you think I lift? You’re what, a hundred pounds?”</p><p>Sofie sniffs, tilting her chin up, even as the idea of him <em>lifting</em> her flickers through her mind and plays like a flickering tv of images that are very… sweaty and hot and <em>naked</em>. “You’re not supposed to ask a girl her weight, it’s very rude, Mister Cavill.”</p><p> “<em>Mister Cavill,” </em>he snorts. “I think someone’s deflecting.”</p><p>“I think someone is going to be late and his assistant is going to kick his ass.”</p><p>He laughs, shaking his head, his eyes bright. “You’re right. <em>Tiny</em>, but right.”</p><p>Sofie grins, lifting her phone. “So, Abba then?”</p><p>He groans, dropping his head back. (But she’s more than sure, there’s a smile at the edges of his mouth.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                 Sofie pushes out a heavy breath, stepping back a few paces as Henry smiles into a phone camer, his arm held loose around the woman’s back, nodding at whatever she says to him, her face flushed-red and excited as she talks to him.</p><p>Sofie hopes she doesn’t look at him like that.</p><p>The woman heads off, looking back once before bringing her phone to her ear and talking quickly into it.</p><p>“Doesn’t that get annoying?” she asks, propping one foot on a park bench and stretching out her leg.</p><p>He shrugs, dropping down onto the bench, tugging up the rim of his cap and pushing back the dark of his hair before readjusting it onto his head, his eyes settling on her as she stretches. She hopes her face isn’t as splotchy as she feels like it is, and smooths a hand over her head to catch the fly-aways and fix her ponytail as she switches legs.</p><p>“Sometimes. Depends on…” he scratches his jaw, looking like he wants to say more. “It'd be different if we were— if I was out with someone, at dinner or something. That gets a little… intrusive.”</p><p>She nods, trying not to focus on the dropped sentence. <em>If we were what?</em> “I can imagine. Dating must not be fun.”</p><p>He snorts. “It can be challenging. Trying to get to know someone when you’re gone so much. Or when just being seen with you is a statement. It’s pretty much all or nothing, right from the first date.”</p><p>She tries not to think about who he’s dated, she stopped herself from Google-Creeping that deep. It felt too invasive. Creepy.</p><p>It is, after all, called Google-<em>Creep</em> for a <em>reason.</em></p><p>He tips his cap up again, tugging his hand through his hair, an almost nervous-looking twitch before he leans forward and Sofie drops her leg, standing in front of him, trying to look away from his face because she thinks it must be fucking obvious to him that she’s no better than that woman that just asked for his photo, flushing and blushing and thirsting over him.</p><p>She’s just hiding it better, <em>hopefully</em>.</p><p>“Do you want to race?” she blurts, because she feels like there’s way too much on her face right now but she doesn’t want to head back to the hotel yet.</p><p>It’s a nice break from reality, she thinks, these meet-ups with him. Even if it’s nothing more than that, a stolen moment in fantasy-land.</p><p>His eyebrows tilt up, but his mouth curves up just as quickly and he gives a rough laugh as pushes to his feet. “My legs are twice the length of yours, you know that, right?”</p><p>Sofie scrunches her nose. “But you’re also lugging like, twice my weight, I bet you fade quick. No stamina.”</p><p>His laugh is rough and sharp and his eyebrows jump up again, the double meaning in the word <em>stamina,</em> hits them both at the same time. “My stamina’s plenty good, Sofie. Don’t worry.”</p><p>She laughs, even though she’s sure her cheeks are on fire, biting her cheek and grinning up at him. “Prove it.”</p><p><em>Please,</em> she thinks, <em>I’d really, really like you to prove it. In a not-nice way.</em></p><p> His eyes narrow, and she can see him biting something back—</p><p>She thinks about tilting up on her tippy-toes, about curling her hands over the thick of his shoulders, maybe into the dark of his hair at the sweaty nape of his neck—</p><p>But she isn’t sure she can be that kind of girl, can she? And he hasn’t— he hasn’t really <em>tried </em>anything…</p><p>Henry pushes out a heavy breath that’s caught on humour and he shakes his head. “A race, huh?”</p><p>She nods, trying to keep her smile steady, even as her stomach sinks. <em>Nice and lonely,</em> she tells herself, <em>friendly. That’s it. Don’t be a creep, Sofie. Have fun.</em></p><p>She nods, to him and to herself, and it makes her smile a little more true.</p><p>Regardless of her… thirstiness, she is <em>enjoying</em> spending time with him, and it’s a nice escape from her normal life. She might as well make the most of it.</p><p>“A race. First one to the third bench up ahead? Around that curve up there?”</p><p>He nods, sizing the distance up and then her. “Alright. I’m game.”</p><p>Sofie grins and then schools her face. “Prepare to lose, Cavill.”</p><p>A pair of joggers run past them as they square the tips of their shoes in line with each other, and they wait, pulling in even breaths and stealing glances.</p><p>“On the count of three?” he asks, as the joggers pass by the bench-marker ahead.</p><p>Sofie nods, pulling her eyes away and pulling in a breath.</p><p>“Three…two…<em>one—</em>”</p><p>They take off, and she knew it would happen, his legs <em>are</em> way longer, and he takes the lead in seconds, but Sofie’s quick and light and there’s a reason why runners don’t often carry a lot of muscles on them.</p><p>They pass the second bench, and she’s right beside him, closing in on the third, tilting out <em>just</em> in front of him—</p><p>When the air gets knocked out of her chest with an <em>oof,</em> something catching her around the middle, yanking her up and back and turning her as her feet leave the ground.</p><p>He’s laughing, but she’s too shocked, too caught up in the spin of the world to make sense of it until his arm shifts and her back is half sliding down his front as her feet touch the ground and he pulls away again, leaving her stumbling behind him as he reaches the bench.</p><p>“You <em>jerk!</em>” she pants, but she feels a smile tugging on her lips as a laugh tugs in her chest and it spills out of her as she stomps towards him, watching him laugh, his hand on his stomach, his head dropped back, his laugh throaty and deep. “You <em>cheater</em>!”</p><p>“I couldn’t help it!” he pushes out, still laughing, looking down at her and grinning. “You looked so focused!”</p><p>“We were <em>racing</em>!” she defends at the same time his words settle in her mind, that he’d been looking at her while she’d just been focused on the stupid <em>bench.</em></p><p>“You were going to win, don’t worry,” he says, his laughter slowing, tugging his cap up and pushing a hand through his hair, his face sweaty and warm, his eyes… like, <em>sparkling,</em> she thinks. “You’re <em>fast </em>for someone so small.”</p><p>Sofie huffs, dropping down on the bench and crossing her arms. “I can’t believe Superman is a <em>cheat</em>.”</p><p>His head tilts back again and Sofie can’t stop the twitching of her own mouth, watching him, her insides sparking with:<em> I did that. I made him laugh like that.</em></p><p>It’s a stupid feeling, but it’s there all the same.</p><p>When he drops down beside her, she has to resist the urge to pull away when their thighs press together, his so much thicker and warmer than hers, his arm falling over the back of the bench behind her as his laughter fades.</p><p>“Rematch tomorrow, then?” He looks at her, catching his breath like she is, still grinning like she is. Even though she’s trying very hard to pretend to be annoyed.</p><p>Sofie scrunches her nose, like she <em>really</em> has to <em>think</em> about it. “I don’t know… Are you going to cheat again?”</p><p>His smile goes crooked, but he brings his hand up and crosses his heart. “Promise I won’t.”</p><p>She huffs, trying to bite back her smile, looking out over the park and sighing out, like it’s a hardship. “I suppose, then. I guess I can schedule you in tomorrow. For a chance to redeem yourself.”</p><p>He laughs beside her, airy and easy and Sofie can feel his eyes on the side of her face, but she doesn’t turn to face him.</p><p>There’re more people on the path now that the sun's higher in the sky, and Sofie knows it’s getting close to that time again, where the bubble of unreality pops and she’s just a girl and he’s… something <em>else.</em></p><p>Sofie eases more into the bench and stretching her legs out in front of her, pointing her toes in her sneakers, feeling that good sort of ache of a workout.</p><p>It goes quiet between them, and it’s a little less comfortable, suddenly as more and more people pass. She can’t help but think of the photographers and fan club the day before. She wonders if he’s worried about it at all, looking over the people filling up the park around them, wondering who has a camera or something for him to sign.</p><p>She glances at him and watches him pull in a breath before his arm comes up from behind her, and she watches him tug the rim of his ballcap up again, pushing his hand through the dark of his hair.</p><p>“So,” he starts, and something ticks up in her chest, she isn’t sure why. “There’s this thing I have to go to tonight. A club a… friend invited me to. One of those, make an appearance sort of things.”</p><p><em>Okay,</em> she thinks, remembering his phone call earlier. <em>Not with anyone,</em> he’d said.</p><p>“I was wondering if you wanted to come.” A pause. “With me.”</p><p>Sofie blinks.</p><p>Wait.</p><p>What.</p><p>“If you can get out for a few hours. It wouldn’t have to be late. If you’re parents—” he cuts off, a wince on his face.</p><p>“My mom,” she blurts. “It’s not— I mean, my mom is on a work thing here, she’s a doctor. Conferences, you know?” <em>No, </em>she thinks, <em>because you’re making literally zero sense, Sofie. “</em>There’s no— uh, you know. Family trip. I just came along to— I like New York.”</p><p><em>@God,</em> she thinks, <em>please shut me up.</em></p><p>His eyebrows sink together a little, and she knows he must be thinking about the other night, her mother in the elevator, Doctor Parish’s wandering hands.</p><p>“That was… her boyfriend,” she lies, because she really doesn’t want to say her mother has <em>opinions</em> about men that are pretty much wrapped up into <em>‘men are only good for one thing, Sof-bee.’</em></p><p>Which translates into a lot of lectures on how important it is for women to be independent and self-reliant and all those absolutely <em>true</em> things… but also into a whole lot of, <em>relationships are unnecessary. Women always get defined by the men in their lives, Sofie. You know how many times people have assumed my husband must be the doctor? Or that I’m just the nurse?</em></p><p>Sofie can’t blame her for feeling that way. She knows how hard her mother worked to get to where she is today.</p><p>“Ah,” he says, and then the moment sinks into her brain and she realises he asked her <em>out.</em></p><p>
  <em>Like a date?</em>
</p><p>Or a hangout?</p><p><em>Shit</em>, she thinks. Her mind spinning.</p><p>He must take her hesitation in a different way than her wondering how to clarify his like, <em>intentions? Interest?</em> Because he shifts beside her, scratching his jaw.</p><p>“It’s a really private, exclusive sort of thing, there won’t be any paparazzi or fan clubs, I promise. I’ve just been promising to come for a while and haven’t gotten around to it.”</p><p>“You don’t like clubs?”</p><p>He shrugs, his lips quirking up, patting his stomach. “Can’t really drink right now. Got a role coming up that I’m building for.”</p><p>She can’t stop her eyes from flicking over him. “You get any bigger, you’re going to have like, a gravitational pull.”</p><p>“You gonna be my moon, Sofie?” he stops right after he says it, like it slipped out and he didn’t mean to say it, but Sofie’s too caught up in a laugh, because that was just <em>bad.</em></p><p>“That’s so… so <em>Game</em> <em>of</em> <em>Thrones</em>,” she pushes out in between her laughter. “Oh my <em>God</em>.”</p><p>She hears him laugh too and the moment eases until their laughter dies and his phone trills in the lull.</p><p>He doesn’t answer it, pulling it out before thumbing it quiet. “What do you say, moon of my life?”</p><p>Sofie laughs again, shaking her head. “I mean… with a line like that… how can a girl say no?”</p><p>He grins, she’s pretty sure it’s infectious, those sharp white teeth and… well, all of him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                The shower beats down on her back, the water hot and stripping off the sweat of their run, humming a white noise around her as her mind drifts to images of him beside her, of his hands and the flex of his forearms, twists into imagining if he really did lift her, if he could pull her up as easily as he makes it seem he could with the way he moved her around so quickly today with just one arm around her waist.</p><p>If he could <em>hold her</em> and <em>sink inside—</em></p><p>Sofie groans, dropping her head back into the spray of water, waters slicing through the conditioner in her hair. She tries to ignore the warmth between her hips, that ache that settles lower, a spreading heat that’s all to do with his fingers and his shoulders and his smile.</p><p>She tries not to think about it, but he sneaks in anyway, slips into her mind and won’t leave and she can’t stop the fantasies, imaging him picking her up, right here, pressing her against the cold-tiled wall and pressing his cock inside of her and—</p><p>Her fingers slip over her mound, into the heat between her thighs, into the ache and the slippery wet that she can’t ignore, that has nothing to do with the shower but rather the things in her head.</p><p>It feels perverse, makes her feel dirty to use him that way, but she rubs herself, sinks her fingers over her clit and imagines his mouth and his lips and his teeth, imagines his breath, and his voice, low-rolling as he pushes deeper…</p><p>Her hand squeaks on the tile, her legs wobble, but she’s too caught up to care.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                After, in the cold and quiet of the hotel room, wrapped in a fluffy towel and staring at the ceiling, trying to tell herself that there’s no way she’s the only girl on the planet who’s ever gotten off to the idea of him. That it was just a fantasy.</p><p>That there’s no way he ever has to <em>know.</em></p><p>Her phone chimes, Sofie sits up and rolls over, ignoring that she’s still a little wet between her thighs, still a little sensitive and refusing to touch herself again. Because he’s been <em>nice</em> and she doesn’t want to be like… like those men and women waiting outside of the hotel, just trying to catch a fucking <em>glimpse</em> of him.</p><p>There’s a number she doesn’t recognise and Sofie frowns, thumbing open her phone and into the message.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em>Unknown</em>— Hey, it’s Henry. Hope it’s okay that I stole your number from the link you sent.</p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p><em>Oh</em>, she thinks, as her pulse spikes and her stomach tenses. The playlist link she messaged him. That was his phone number. <em>His phone number.</em></p><p>She hesitates, her fingers hovering over the text screen, watching the blinking cursor. She thinks it should be <em>easier</em> in text, shouldn’t it? Without having to <em>look</em> at him?</p><p>Somehow it isn’t. She spends a minute just trying to remind herself that it’s real, that he’s texting <em>her.</em> That he asked her <em>out—</em></p><p><em>Oh my God,</em> she thinks, trying <em>not</em> to think about her fingers between her legs or the very real ache still lingering because of the very real man who just asked her <em>out.</em></p><p>Like a date, right?</p><p>Her stomach twists. She <em>wants</em> it to be a date.</p><p>Sofie forces herself to focus, pulling in a breath and letting it out. Saving his number in her phone while she thinks of how to respond.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Sofie— Very efficient of you. Thrifty, even.</p>
  <p>Henry— Thank you, I like to think so.</p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>She smiles. At nothing. <em>You</em> <em>loser, Sofie.</em></p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Henry— I’ve got a car coming around to pick us up, around nine, if that’s alright? I’m going to be out most of the day until then.</p>
  <p>Sofie— Sure. I can meet you there if that’s easier?</p>
  <p>Henry— No, that’s not what I meant. Just trying to explain why it’s so late.</p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>She isn’t sure nine is <em>that </em>late, but then, it is only eight in the morning now, it’s basically a whole <em>day</em> away.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Sofie— it’s fine, I don’t mind.</p>
  <p>Henry— Great. I got to run, I’m sorry. I’ll call you later, firm up the time.</p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p><em>Sounds good, </em>she texts back, dropping the phone after she gets a quick <em>See you later, Sofie,</em> that makes her inside all <em>sticky</em> and <em>stupid</em> as she drops back onto the bed with a puff of soft hotel-duvet.</p><p>She pushes out a breath, closing her eyes and trying not to panic about just what the <em>fuck</em> she’s going to wear. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She’s definitely not going to <em>panic.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>           It’s a lie, she’s definitely panicking.</p><p>In like, a completely understandable way though, she tells herself, hiking over to the nearest grouping of shops with an eye for something fancy but still… club-like. Something short but not… <em>I’m-going-to-flash-you-if-I-move, </em>sort of short, but more like, <em>I-bought-this-because-I’d-really-like-you-to-take-it-off-me-please-and-thank-you.</em></p><p>Something like that.</p><p>A girl can <em>hope,</em> right?</p><p>He did ask her out, after all. On this, date-like thing.</p><p>She isn’t going to have like a <em>relationship</em> with him, she knows that. He’s… well, <em>him</em> and she’s twenty-one and clueless about her own life, but… but he’s hot and she’s getting more and more sure that he’d be like, down to get down, you know?</p><p>Sofie tells herself that she can be <em>that</em> girl for one night, that it’s okay to <em>want</em> to be that girl, to maybe get a <em>little</em> bit drunk and maybe a little bit more bold and a little bit braver and maybe… maybe she can have like, a really great memory when she gets back home and she’s just Sofie again.</p><p>A girl can <em>hope,</em> right?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                She stares at herself in the too-bright lights of the hotel bathroom. Her hair long and loose, wavy with just a bit of a rumpled look courtesy of some hair gunk she picked up at corner-store a few streets over. She’s regretting not packing more than she did, thinking she’d like to maybe straighten it, look sleeker and more polished, more… refined, maybe. <em>Mature</em>.</p><p>But she wasn’t exactly planning on meeting anyone but the street-food vendors and some of her mother’s coworkers when she had to. It was supposed to just be sight-seeing, MET-visiting sort of trip.</p><p>Not… whatever the hell this is now.</p><p><em>Exciting, </em>she thinks. <em>New</em>.</p><p>She tugs the hem of the strappy, slinky-loose, champagne-coloured, shiny-sequined dress she chose from H&amp;M, a splurge she wouldn’t normally give into, but other than dresses that are more medical-conference dinner-party ready, she didn’t bring much more than leggings and jeans.</p><p>She tilts her head, debating putting on more makeup, but she’s never been great at it and watching Instagram videos never seemed to help much, if anything it made her feel worse, it <em>never</em> looked as good as the girls in the videos.</p><p>She keeps it simple, blush and some sparkly highlighter on her cheekbones, mascara and pink-tinted gloss. Fiddling with her hair and debating whether to tie it up… is it more of a dancing club or a fancy club?</p><p>She probably should have asked him more about it.</p><p>But then, her phone rings and she only has time to trip over herself to answer it, pulling in a breath and then almost choking on it, his voice low and warm and <em>nice</em> in her ear.</p><p>
  <em>Hullo, Sofie.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hope you guys like smut.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                He’s there when the elevator doors open; dark trousers and a black button-up with the sleeves rolled over thick forearms; the shirt unbuttoned just enough for her to see the start of his chest hair… for some reason, somehow, it makes him seem so much more… <em>real</em>. Makes her tummy do this <em>flipflop</em> that spills lower until she’d like to press her thighs together to chase that ache, just a little bit.</p><p>His eyes flick over her, top to bottom all slow and easy from where he’s leaning against the car, just outside of the doors to the parking garage… because she told him she’d meet him here instead of letting him pick her up at her hotel room. Even knowing her mother was out for the day with coworkers (or Doctor Parish, maybe,) Sofie wasn’t sure how to explain the mess she left her room in while getting ready, or the whole, adjoining-room-with-her-mother thing.</p><p>She doesn’t want to be twenty-one-year-old Sofie tonight. She just wants to be… <em>his.</em> For one night.</p><p>A girl can <em>hope</em>, right?</p><p>“You look—” he pushes off the car, his hands coming out of his pants pockets, lifting his hand to push through his hair, smoother than she’s seen it before, more polished and straight. More like the movie-star she knows he is than the ball-cap, sweaty workout partner she’s been kinda used to seeing him as.</p><p><em>This was a bad idea,</em> she thinks, <em>there’s no way—</em></p><p>He doesn’t say anything more, his dropped sentence hangs between them, but his eyes feel heavy and Sofie shifts on her heels, biting her cheek and thinking, <em>that’s interest, right? That’s a down to get down sort of look, isn’t it?</em></p><p>
  <em>Isn’t it?</em>
</p><p>She kind of just wants to ask him. <em>Thumbs up if you like-like me.</em></p><p>The car is sleek and black and it’s all tinted windows and dark seats. Sofie closes the distance between them, her heels clicking and echoing in the large, underground parking lot.</p><p>He smiles at her crookedly. “You clean up nice, huh?”</p><p>She laughs, the too-quiet moment breaks and she flicks his chest. “Shut up.”</p><p>Henry grins and opens the car door for her; she slips into the backseat and watches as he rounds the car to the other side and climbs in. The space fills with the smell of his cologne, the warmth of him near her on the bench seat… it’s hard to look at him. It’s hard <em>not</em> to look at him.</p><p>He’s already looking at her.</p><p>“So, what is this place?” Sofie blurts, fiddling with the latch on her clutch, hopefully out of sight on the other side of her thigh. She thinks it was a bad idea to rub one out this morning, she’s pretty sure she’s still turned on, still thinking about getting off again, but with his fingers this time, slipping under the hem of her underwear, thick, rough pads of his fingers, or thumb maybe, rubbing over the heat of her clit.</p><p><em>Jesus, Sofie, </em>she screams at herself, <em>stop thinking about it.</em></p><p>Her head feels like a see-saw, or maybe just a saw, grinding back and forth between wanting him and feeling guilty for it all at the same time.</p><p>She doesn’t want to some desperate fan tonight. He must meet people like that all the time, right?</p><p>But is it so bad to be that? Just for one night? Or an hour. Maybe even like twenty minutes.</p><p>She can live a little, right?</p><p>“Sofie?”</p><p>His voice tears her out of her jumbled thoughts and she startles, realising he's speaking to her and she hasn’t heard anything.</p><p>“Sorry, what were you saying?”</p><p>His eyes narrow, looking at her, but his lips twitch up on one side and he starts again. “I said it’s a private club beneath Flux, you heard of it?”</p><p>“Restaurant, right?” she asks, scrunching her nose a bit, trying to remember it. “Super expensive, famous chef or something.”</p><p>“That’s the one,” he says with a smile. “A… sort of friend of a friend owns both, not many people know about the bottom half of it.”</p><p>She nods, knowing she’s never heard of anything but Flux being one those pay-out-your-ass restaurants that she’d literally <em>never</em> want to go to.</p><p>“What’s it called?”</p><p>He snorts. “Doesn’t have a name. You either know about it or you don’t.”</p><p>She frowns. “That’s…”</p><p>“Rich people?” he says with a crooked sort of smile, because yeah, that’s pretty much what she was thinking. “I get it. It sounds stupid even when I think about it, and I don’t mind admitting I have money. But sometimes it feels like the only place you don’t have to worry about someone watching you is your own home. It’s why this place is popular.”</p><p>“That’s why you said there won’t be any fans or paparazzi.”</p><p>He nods. “People want it kept quiet for a reason.”</p><p><em>Celebrities</em>, he means, Sofie’s sure.</p><p><em>Huh,</em> she puffs, glancing to look out the window, the city around them lit up and somehow feeling more alive than it does during the day.</p><p>“Still want to go?”</p><p><em>Do you really have to ask,</em> she thinks, and looks back at him, meeting his eyes and trying to understand, make sense, find some hint that she can maybe be a little bit more bold and a little bit more brave and just… <em>go for it.</em></p><p>She nods, telling herself there’s no shame in going after what she wants. That she can do this. “Yeah.”</p><p><em>Good,</em> he says and before he can say anything else, the car is turning, slowing, and pulling into another underground lot. It gets darker in the car and then the lighting turns into that pale-white fluorescent glow outside of the tinted windows and the car stops. Sofie lifts her hand to the door handle, but Henry’s hand closes around her forearm, his voice low.</p><p>“Wait.” He slides out first, and even though she feels stupid waiting in the car while he circles it and opens the door for her, she can’t really pretend that she isn’t like, a <em>little</em> bit charmed by it.</p><p>“Is that British charm?” she asks, taking his offered hand and trying to hold her dress hem with the other to slide off the seat and into the chill of the underground lot.</p><p>He smiles, slow and easy, his eyes shadowed in the overhead lights, by the way she has to tilt her head to look up at him. “Am I charming you?”</p><p>Sofie flushes at the tone but rolls her eyes. “Like it’s hard for you, Cavill.”</p><p>He laughs quietly, it echoes a bit in the concrete lot as his hand slips into hers slowly, in a different way than just a hand out to help her. It sticks in her stomach, the slow touch, the warmth of his palm and fingers around hers.</p><p>“Still with the Cavill, huh? I don’t even know your last name.”</p><p>“Miller,” she offers. “Sofie Miller.”</p><p><em>Bond, James Bond,</em> her mind supplies at the same time as Henry’s hand tightens a little more around hers. “Alright, <em>Miller</em>, I feel like I already know the answer to this, are you more of a dancing girl or a drinking girl?”</p><p>Sofie huffs. “You think you know, huh?”</p><p>He nods, smirking as he leads her up to a nondescript door near an elevator. “My money’s on dancing girl.”</p><p>“Now I have to get completely fucked up, you know that, right? Just to prove you wrong? And as payback for being an absolute <em>cheat.</em>”</p><p>He lifts a hand to his chest, his face twisting. “The slander.”</p><p>“The <em>truth.</em>”</p><p>His face breaks into a grin. “I’m pretty sure I apologised for that.”</p><p>“It rang very untrue. Apparently, you’re not as great of an actor as you think you are.”</p><p>He laughs, his eyes crinkling with it. “Brutal. Take no prisoners, huh?”</p><p>She grins, a giddy feeling in her chest, like champagne all bubbly and bright; their hands still locked together, as easy as anything. “It’s a dog eat dog world out there, Cavill, and I was born a chihuahua.”</p><p>He laughs, loud and deep, <em>chihuahua </em>echoing through the underground lot, his head tilting back. “Fuck, Sofie. Where the hell did you come from?”</p><p>“Maine,” she laughs, grinning so wide her face hurts.</p><p>His laughter trails off, but his grin stays as they approach the door. She’s pretty sure she hears him mutter <em>chihuahua </em>under his breath with another huff of laughter.</p><p>They step up to that nondescript door and Sofie gives him a look. “This is it?”</p><p>He nods. “Rich people. Privacy. It’s… what did you say? A <em>Thing</em>.”</p><p>She snorts a laugh.</p><p>In like, a cute way.</p><p>She <em>hopes.</em></p><p>Henry lifts his hand, knocking on the door and there’s a moment where nothing happens and Sofie’s about to ask him if this is really just a broom closet—</p><p>When a buzzer sounds and the door swings open from the inside and a dark-suited man steps out, holding it open.</p><p>“So, you’re James Bond,” she says, stepping closer to him and away from the bulk of the guy at the door. “Like for real-real.”</p><p>He laughs, low and warm. “Unfortunately, no. Though I’d definitely love to play him.”</p><p>“I think you’d make a great Bond,” she says and glances up at him from the side, seeing the little smile on his face, the soft, <em>thank you, Sofie, </em>as he leads her down the hall, glancing back when the door shuts behind them and the man follows them before stepping through another door where she catches a glimpse of a security camera.</p><p>“So rich people are paranoid?”</p><p>He huffs a laugh. “You’ve no idea.”</p><p><em>Huh,</em> Sofie breathes out, and tries to focus on that thump of music coming from up ahead, a low bass-beat that spills louder as they get closer.</p><p>She’s nervous suddenly, not so much for the <em>who</em> on the other side of the door, because she doesn’t really care about the whole celebrity thing… outside of finding some of them hot, obviously. But she’s suddenly stuck with idea that this is going to be like some of those fancy dinner parties her mother takes her to, the ones where she has to remind Sofie to stand straighter, to smile, to not act like—</p><p>Well, someone who doesn’t belong at (or really even <em>enjoy</em>) fancy parties.</p><p>She did always wonder if her mother practised her aloof, cold-sort of charm in the mirror until her back was straight and her smiles perfect.</p><p>Sofie almost wishes she’d done the same now.</p><p>“Alright?” he asks, and she’s brought back into the moment, his arm thick and warm beneath his shirt, his hand wrapped around hers and his knuckles brushing the outside of her thigh between them.</p><p>“Very,” she smiles back, swallowing her nerves as a door ahead swings open, held open by another black-suited bouncer-slash-security guard, and then they’re in a second, much nicer hallway, the music ahead growing even louder—</p><p>And then the music swells and turns into a fist knocking into her chest, a heavy bass-beat that pulses inside of her. The club is dark, lit only in hanging, low-burning neon-blue lights, the dancefloor even darker, lit in strips of blue and shifting pink.</p><p>It isn’t all that different than any other club she’s been to before, but there is definitely something more high-class about it, whether it’s the spread of it, the multiple bars across the span of the room, or the white-gold lights hanging over booth seats around the edges of the dancefloor, she isn’t sure.</p><p>But still, she thinks, it’s definitely a <em>club</em>.</p><p>“Kent!”</p><p>Sofie barely hears it, but Henry must, because he steps forward, his hand slipping out of hers as a man steps out of the crowd. He’s tall and lean, wearing ripped jeans and a black button-up that’s undone enough to show off a smooth chest. Almost <em>too</em> far undone, Sofie thinks.</p><p><em>Kent?</em> She thinks and glances at Henry, who gives her a, <em>yeah, I know,</em> sort of look before the man reaches them.</p><p>“Man, it’s about time you got your ass here,” the man yells, just loud enough for his voice to travel over the beat of the music, pulling Henry into one of those, one-armed, one-thump to the back, man hugs.</p><p>Sofie never understood the back-thump thing, what’s the point of it?</p><p>The man’s eyes land on her and he gives her a quick once over, a grin splitting his face. “This your girl, Cavill?”</p><p>A girl can <em>hope.</em></p><p>“Sofie, Marc, Marc, Sofie,” Henry says as the two men break apart and he steps back, his arm slipping around her back, hand coming to rest on her other hip. Sofie’s insides light up like a firecracker, like the shifting lights of the club, all bright and dizzying because it’s large and warm even through the fabric of her dress.</p><p>The man gives her another once over and Sofie can’t help but feel a bit like she’s being measured and come up lacking. “Cute girl,” he says and then grins at Henry. “Come on, let's get you some drinks.”</p><p><em>Cute,</em> Sofie thinks and tries not to take it personally, Henry’s hand tightens on her hip, a little pulse of a touch, and she glances up at him, meeting his eyes. She isn’t sure what’s in them, it’s just the shifting lights of the club tinting the blue of them, but his hand slips off her waist and he takes her hand, leading her in deeper.</p><p>Marc leads them both to a booth at the edge of the dancefloor; plush velvet in a dark colour that she thinks might be navy. The table itself glows with a dim-white light, like something out of Star Trek, spilling a soft colour over the people there. Sofie tries not to stare at any faces, just follows Henry’s body until he pulls her forward a little and lets her slip in first, next to a woman already seated before he closes in behind her on the bench.</p><p>Their bodies touch as he eases into the booth, leaning back a little, his arm behind her, hand loose on the other side of her hip, just barely touching the side of her upper thigh.</p><p>She finds she cares even less about everyone else at the table, too focused on all the places his body touches hers, hip to thigh to knee, to the brush of his pant leg against the bare skin of her calf. It’s like an electric pulse, a current running through her, filled up with the fantasy of <em>maybe.</em></p><p>Marc settles in across from them, flanked by two women who look straight out of an Instagram post, all tanned, full curves and perfect makeup.</p><p>Sofie finds it pretty obvious why he called her <em>cute</em> in comparison.</p><p>She glances around the table, seeing another woman who doesn’t miss the same Instagram-babe look by much, but she tilts a little more into Pin-Up, with the drape of her dress between her breasts and the full, plumped-up red of her lips.</p><p>Sofie shifts a little, something twinging in her stomach that has less to do with the man beside her and more to do with feeling more than a little bit out of place. And she’s suddenly glad she didn’t wear something tighter, knowing that while she appreciates what her body can do for her, she’s never had much in the way of curves to show off.</p><p>A waitress shows up, called over on Marc’s lifted hand. He orders for the table and says something about Henry being too fit, but Henry’s thumb brushes along the hem of her dress, just onto her skin and she can’t really focus on anything else even as the table laughs and she can feel him laughing too, a low rumble against her side.</p><p>She glances at him over her shoulder, finds his eyes already on her, but it’s too dark to really make out what’s in them, just a slow look, one that makes her want to press her legs together and chase that little bit of spilling heat setting low between her hips. Or press closer to him, close the distance, take a chance…</p><p>The drinks arrive and Henry shifts forward, his arm tucking more around her, the heat of his body like a furnace, all hard plains and heavy muscles. His fingers tuck under her thigh, a loose hold that feels like something between just a way to keep his hand and arm in place and a more… intimate touch against her skin.</p><p>There’s one shot for everyone at the table, but she’s surprised when Henry takes two, passing her one, the tips of his fingers getting a little shiny from the slosh of the shot.</p><p>“Thought you weren’t drinking,” she says turning her head towards his just enough that she doesn’t have to raise her voice any more than she absolutely has to.</p><p>“Thought you were getting fucked up?” he teases, clinking their shots together and Sofie grins, lifting hers back at the same time.</p><p>She watches Henry swallow and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, it makes him seem younger, not that he’s <em>old</em>, but he seems so much <em>more</em> than she is that she thinks she forgot he’s still… well, a single, stupid-hot guy.</p><p>Sofie holds her breath until the burn of alcohol settles and she pushes out a breath. Henry watches her, she can feel it and she grins over at him when she sets the shot down.</p><p>She’s not going to get fucked up, she knows, she just needs to ease her edges a little, use a bit of alcohol-bravery and convince herself she can do totally do this.</p><p>
  <em>Do him.</em>
</p><p> Marc orders another round of drinks and Sofie nurses hers, something pink and sweet and strong, only half-listening to the conversation around her, sipping on the fruity drink and feeling her body ease into Henry’s more and more as her drink, and his, gets lower.</p><p>It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but she feels a little bit out of place, or maybe it’s just the alcohol settling in her stomach. She feels right on the edge of too young to be there, like it’s her first time sitting at the adult table. Which is stupid, seeing as she goes to all those events with her mother and can fake-it-till-she-makes-it pretty well.</p><p>But it’s nice, tucked against his side, even if she doesn’t really have anything to offer the conversation, doesn’t know anything about movies or filming things or…</p><p>She’s like Jack, she thinks, coming up from third class after pulling Rose over the railing.</p><p><em>You jump, I jump,</em> she thinks as Henry taps her thigh with his thumb; she looks up at him and offers him a smile around her straw. He smiles back and its…<em>nice</em>… even when he goes back to the conversation and Sofie keeps thinking about Titanic and how she probably wouldn’t sleep with Leonardo DiCaprio, even if he were Titanic-era hot and her make-shift workout partner.</p><p>It makes her feel better about the whole thing, that it’s more of a <em>Cavill</em> thing and not just a star-struck sort of thing to seize the moment.</p><p>It’s nearing the end of her drink, and Henry's thumb is rubbing lightly over her thigh that's comforting as much as it's driving her crazy— when a man comes over out of the crowd and he’s familiar, or his face is, and Sofie can guess he’s an actor but she isn’t sure where she’s seen him before. Henry slips out of the booth and pulls the man into another one of those hand-shakes to one-armed hugged things and slips into a conversation with him, their heads tilted together.</p><p>The loss of his body next to hers makes her feel cold and even more out of place. She slurps the last bit of her drink and then sets the glass down, glancing around the table and catching Marc’s eyes on her.</p><p>“Another?” he says, loud enough to cross the distance. Sofie shakes her head, biting her cheek and tapping her foot.</p><p>“Aw, come on,” he grins, lifting his hand to call the waitress back. “Loosen up—”</p><p>Henry turns, looking at her first and then turning to look at Marc, he says something to him that Sofie can’t quite make out, not with the beat of the music, but Marc lifts a hand, palms up, placating as he offers Henry a grin, something not at all really apologetic.</p><p>Henry looks back at her again and Sofie offers him a smile before he turns back to the guy he’s standing with. She isn’t sure what to do, doesn’t want to demand his attention if he needs to talk or like, ‘make an appearance’ in here… but her fingers are itching for something to fiddle with, her legs itching to move—<em>Fuck it</em>, she thinks, and slips out of the booth. Henry looks at her as she stands, pulled out of the conversation, a question on his face that’s half concern, half curiosity.</p><p>She licks her lips and tilts up on her heels as much as she can, bracing her hand on his stomach, (and for a second, it’s all she can focus on, the heat and hardness of his stomach, the tense of it, the sudden flicker of a fantasy of what it’d be like to touch him without the shirt there at all.) Henry still has to lean down to hear her, his hand touching her side.</p><p>“Gonna dance,” she says, with the warm-spice of his cologne or soap of <em>whatever it is</em> beneath her nose, her breath puffing against his ear. When she leans back, he’s slow to straighten up, something in his eyes she can’t make out, heavy and searching and she wants to ask him to come with her, to press up behind her and put his hands on her, anywhere, really... but he only nods, his lips tilting up on one side like he isn’t surprised.</p><p>A little bit disappointed, but mostly just ready to lose herself a little in the music, Sofie heads towards the dancefloor. It’s all shifting lights and pressing bodies, the music heavy and heady, and within seconds she loses herself to the mindless rhythm of the song, the female-sung lyrics flowing beneath the heavier beat.</p><p>In the music and the pulse and the press of the people around her, Sofie isn’t anything but her body, and it’s always what makes her love music so much, a moment of freedom and mindlessness to lose herself in. There’s no pressure, no demands from her mother, no expectations— Sofie moves and lets her mind quiet as one song flows into another and another…</p><p>For a moment, she misses her friends, the ease of dancing with them, but a girl ends up slipping closer and Sofie grins at her in the press of the dancefloor. It’s easy to dance with her, that uncomplicated, free way of dancing that isn’t about the men around them, isn’t about hooking up or meeting anyone… it’s just about <em>dancing</em>.</p><p>But as one song slips into another, Sofie looks back to the side of the dancefloor and finds, just outside of the shifting lights, backlit by the glow of the table behind him, Henry watching her.</p><p>He lifts his drink to his mouth, and Sofie watches him watch her; he’s still standing with the man he was talking to when she left, she realises, but she’s too focused on him, on the weight of his eyes, on that secret, hot little thrill of knowing that he must want her the way she wants him.</p><p>It sparks inside of her stomach like the burn of alcohol, slips through her body and warms her from head to toe, makes her aware of every inch of her body, of the girl’s hands on her hips, moving with her to the beat.</p><p>She somehow knows, in the moment, that he’d been watching her since she slipped out of the booth, and the realisation settles warm in her stomach, sinks lower, makes her pulse trip…</p><p>She wants to dance <em>for</em> him.</p><p>The song slips into a heavier chorus and she lifts her arm, reaching up and letting her arm fall back to touch the girl’s shoulder, hearing the girl laugh in her ear, <em>he’s watching you, you know.</em></p><p>Sofie grins, laughing and leaning into it, feeling the hem of her slinky dress lifting higher. <em>I know.</em></p><p>She moves and sways and the girl laughs with her, smiling and moving with Sofie as the music beats on and on and all Sofie can do is watch him watching her and keep moving; that thrill, that humming sort of awareness of him and his body and her and her own body…builds and builds until Sofie isn’t sure she can hear anything over the beat of her own heart and the fantasies in her head that shift like the lights above them, all skin and sweat and his voice in her ear.</p><p>She watches him lift his drink again, tilting his head in a motion that looks like he’s telling her to <em>come here.</em></p><p>Sofie slips away from the girl behind her, shooting her a smile over her shoulder, slipping out of the dancefloor and back into the shadowed booth area. She stops just in front of him and she isn’t sure if he’s looked away at all and she isn’t sure if her heartbeat could get any harder, but it doesn’t matter she thinks, as he straightens up from where he was leaning against the table and his hand slips into hers, leading her deeper into the club.</p><p>Part of her wants to say <em>no, you’re going the wrong way</em>, but she isn’t sure she cares <em>where</em> they go, just so long as he keeps touching her. As long as he touches her <em>more.</em></p><p>She watches his shoulders again, the flex of his muscles visible beneath his shirt, the weight of his hand in hers… she isn’t sure what she’s feeling, anticipation, nervousness, a need to be touched, a need for him to say something, just to know—</p><p>Maybe she doesn’t want to know though, it’s probably better if this is just a hook-up. A one-time, one-chance, <em>have-fun-Sofie</em> sort of moment.</p><p>She isn’t paying attention to much until they’re far enough away from the dancefloor that the music is a bit duller and they reach an elevator and a narrow curve of a hallway that leads to a staircase.</p><p>When he pulls her a little in front of him and motions that they’re going upstairs, Sofie isn’t sure if she’s disappointed or not, it’s all just an itch to be touched, to close the distance and find out if he feels that tug of tension between them the same way she does. That build-up of anticipation like an itch that needs to be scratched. (Except more like <em>rubbed</em>, she thinks. Heavy and focused and just like, in one spot.)</p><p>She’s just starting up the stairs, her heel up one step, when she catches sight of Henry taking hold of the railing on the other side of her, his body warm and so…<em>close</em> behind hers, and<em>—</em> and she turns back, nearly the same height as him now, in her heels and standing on the step in front of him.</p><p>His face is shadowed in the dim light of the stairway, lit by the low-white lights above them and Sofie—</p><p>“Twenty-one is legal everywhere in the world, you know that, right?”</p><p>He looks at her, his lips curving up on one side; they’re close enough, Sofie can feel his body heat, millimetres from hers. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I thought you weren’t, very, very legal.”</p><p>Sofie bites her cheek, trying to hold in a smile, her heart thumping too hard in her chest as she reaches up and swallows her nerves and just—</p><p>Takes a chance.</p><p>His skin is warm, bleeding up through the fabric of his button-up; he's hard beneath her palm, all heavy muscles and well-built man. She isn’t sure she’s ever met anyone like him, she thinks as she leans closer and watches his eyes, just barely blue in the dim light; her heart beats faster, her hands curling to steady herself as she tilts her head, her lips brushing the stubble on his cheek—</p><p>And when she presses her lips there, just presses them, a little breath caught in her throat that’s pulsing with a need for him to do <em>something,</em> she feels the shift of his chest beneath her hands, a slow inhale just before she feels the first brush of his hand along her thigh.</p><p>His fingers are rough-tipped and warm, his palm hot, Sofie leans back, her lips just barely brushing his cheek as his head turns—</p><p><em>A kiss,</em> she thinks, a kiss would be—</p><p>But a laugh breaks through the quieter hallway, and a group comes around the corner, men and women and alcohol-tinted laughter. The group full of faces Sofie can’t be bothered to try to look at long enough to tell if it’s anyone she knows, but then a guy in the group looks over at them and it’s Marc, she realises, his grin wide and toothy and <em>knowing.</em></p><p>“Bring your girl upstairs, Kent! Come on!”</p><p>Sofie thinks she's never disliked anyone so quickly in her life, right in that moment.</p><p>Henry’s hand tightens on her thigh and slips around the back of it. Sofie’s fingers curl in his shirt, torn between closing her eyes and focusing on his touch and watching the group move on towards the elevators; feels weirdly disconnected from them, like time is moving normally for them but Sofie’s stuck in molasses, every nerve in her body focused on his palm on her thigh.</p><p>Marc is the last to disappear, laughing and still grinning with that <em>look</em> on his face that says he knows <em>exactly </em>what she wants—and she isn’t sure if she’s embarrassed by that or not, or too caught up in the moment to care at all— but she <em>does</em> want to scowl at him, to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business and the girl he has under his arm, but her cheeks are burning and Henry’s head turns first, his nose brushing her cheek, his breath warm, alcohol-tinted.</p><p>Sofie doesn’t want to move at all.</p><p>(Unless that movement includes pressing her body against his and climbing him like a tree.)</p><p> His hand inches higher, Sofie’s sure he can feel the beat of her heart against his chest, sure he can’t miss how hard she’s breathing, nerves and eagerness and a want that feels like a frayed, sparking electrical wire inside of her.</p><p>“Do you want to go upstairs?” he asks, but it’s nothing more than a rumble of words, and her eyes close as his lips brush her jaw again, warmed by his breath. “Or back to the hotel?”</p><p><em>The hotel,</em> her body screams, but she swallows, her hand twisting tighter into his shirt on his shoulders. “Do you have to go upstairs?”</p><p>His thumb brushes higher, nearly at the crease between the back of her upper thigh and the start of her ass cheek and it sends a low-rolling throb of want through her body. “He won’t even remember I wasn't there. And that wasn’t the question.”</p><p>Sofie thinks she should laugh, should make a joke, should say something clever and funny, but—</p><p>But his lips brush her jaw and his thumb brushes just along that curve beneath her ass cheek and Sofie leans forward the same time his head turns into her neck, her arms wrapping tighter around his shoulders, gripping onto the back of his shirt with one hand, the other white-knuckled on her clutch. She says, <em>back to the hotel </em>into the warmth of his neck, and his arm coming up to wrap around her waist, to pull her into him and off the bottom step of the stair—</p><p>He lifts her, turning them both away from the stairs; her heels touch the ground as he leans forward to set her down, his lips brushing her jaw again, his voice thick and hot and rough. “<em>Good</em>.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                She’s never done this before, never been <em>this</em> girl, but his hand stays in hers all the way through the car ride back to the hotel, leaving it only long enough for him to climb out of the car and help her out, even though she wants to tell him that he doesn’t need to be charming or chivalrous, they both know what this is, don’t they?</p><p>One night, one memory, (but hopefully more than twenty minutes.)</p><p>His hand is warm around hers and Sofie uses it to steady herself on legs that feel like she’s Bambi wobbling through his first real steps ever as they step up to the elevator in the parking garage. She hopes he doesn’t notice, but seeing as his eyes keep finding hers, she somehow doubts she’s coming across as cool and collected as she’d like to be.</p><p><em>It’s just a hook-up,</em> she tells herself, <em>relax</em>, <em>Sofie</em>.</p><p>He leans against the elevator wall beside her, but his eyes are on her in the mirrored-wall across from them; Sofie meets him, finally able to see his face outside of the shadow of the club. He looks stupid-hot and too much like the celebrity he is and it makes her—</p><p>See-saw between nervousness and eagerness, that thump-bump of her pulse that’s half-filled with a want to feel his hands on her skin and his cock inside of her, and half-filled with the very real reality that she’s… never really done this before.</p><p>But it’s what she <em>wants.</em></p><p>(Which makes it a lot easier to be just a little bit braver.)</p><p>Sofie pushes off the wall, turning to step in front of him, their eyes still locked.</p><p>Henry lifts a brow.</p><p> Sofie drags her bottom lip into her mouth, scraping her teeth over it as she reaches up and hooks her finger into that open ‘v’ of his button-up, right where the pull of the buttons strain against the thick of his chest. She feels the brush of his chest hair against her knuckles, the hard heat of his muscles and has to bite her lip a little harder as the feeling spikes through her and sinks right into that steadily growing heat between her hips that beats in time to her pulse.</p><p>“I didn’t know Superman was a cheat and a <em>chicken</em>,” she says as lightly, as relaxed as she can manage given that her heart feels moments from pounding out of her rib cage and her stomach is a knot and her panties…</p><p>Are not exactly <em>dry.</em></p><p>His smile is slow and <em>sharp</em> and his eyes are dark and then he’s leaning down— and she barely registers his hands cupping the back of her thighs before he’s hauling her up and stepping forward and pressing her against the wall of the elevator. Her heart trips, her breath catches— her arms moving on their own, winding around his shoulders, gripping on right between his shoulder blades, feeling the flex of his back as his hands grip her, sliding higher along the back of her thighs.</p><p>“You’re trouble, aren’t you?” he mutters, his mouth so close to hers she can’t think about anything else.</p><p>Sofie shakes her head, her heart pounding, breathing too hard, too caught up in him to care. “I’m actually—”</p><p>“Sofie,” he starts, his voice more of a grunt than anything else as he presses her harder against the wall, stealing her words and her thoughts until there’s nothing but the way the thick of his body spreads her legs around his waist, the way his hands cups the back of her thighs, the way her cunt, hot and aching, grinds against the hardness of his stomach. Her breath hitches, he tilts his head, the warmth, the heat, the alcohol-tinted rough of his voice burning against her lips, less than a millimetre away. “Shut up.”</p><p>And then he kisses her.</p><p>It’s hot and hard and <em>perfect</em> in a way she didn't know a first kiss could be— his tongue slipping into her mouth as Sofie tilts her head and grips harder at the back of his shirt, pressing her chest into his as if she can somehow bring them closer together than they already are.</p><p>Henry’s hands grope harder into the back of her thighs, his fingers long and brushing along the bottom inner curve, so close to where she’s aching and wet and been thinking about him touching her all day (or since she met him, if she was being perfectly honest) and she’s thinks she makes a noise in her throat or maybe he does, she isn’t sure, all she knows is that his body is thick and he’s heavy in a way she’s never felt before, his stubble scraping her skin as the kiss gets harder and heavier and hungrier.</p><p>The world shifts and it takes her a beat too long to figure out why, too caught up his mouth breaking away from hers, his teeth sharp on her jaw, his breath hot and mouth eager, biting and sucking down her neck as he pulls her away from the wall—</p><p>Sofie pants, gripping onto him, squirming in his arms as he shifts her weight in his arms and her cunt rubs harder against his abs as his hands slide up to grip her ass to carry her out of the elevator.</p><p>Part of her, some half-aware, non-Cavill-desperate part of her mind tells her that this is still a public place, that anyone could see them… but it’s drowned out by the way he shifts her so easily in his arms, pressing her into the wall beside what she hopes is his hotel door and reaches into his pocket for his keycard.</p><p>He kisses her throat, the hummingbird-beat of her pulse, scrapes his teeth over the same spot and Sofie clings on while he shifts her again as the door clicks open and he pushes it open with one hand and then his foot.</p><p>It bangs against the wall and she laughs, tucking her head into his neck, fizzy with excitement, with the thrill of him touching her the way he is; heavy-handed and wanting. These full-palmed touches that are almost eager to feel her, to touch more of her.</p><p>It's like nothing she's felt before. Nothing she's imagined.</p><p>Sofie breathes him in before the world spins again and she’s falling back, being <em>tossed back</em>, landing in a puff of white, soft duvet. It takes a second for her world to focus enough to see Henry, standing at the edge of the bed, gripping her ankle and peeling off her black heels while toeing off his own shoes.</p><p>Sofie tosses her clutch towards the top of the bed and pushes herself up, thinking to help him, to do more than just lie back and watch him, as nice as it is to just <em>look</em> at him. But Henry tugs on her ankle and it jolts her towards him, knocking her off balance and back down to the bed with a puff of breath pushed out of her chest.</p><p>He lifts a brow, smirking down at her.</p><p>She kind of hates his face, like, a lot.</p><p>(That’s a dirty lie, she’s pretty sure his face is a top contender of Things That Turn Sofie On.)</p><p>Her other heel is off a second later, and it lands somewhere on the floor over his shoulder with a thump; she wants to laugh, but even before her heel has fully hit the ground, Henry’s hands are sliding up the back of her legs, his knee coming up onto the bed as he pushes her knees up and towards her chest, folding her in half and holding her open as his eyes sink over her.</p><p>There isn’t time for another thought, no time to even <em>blush—</em> nothing more than a caught sort of <em>ohmygod—</em> as he hooks his hands into the back of her knees and ducks his head down.</p><p>He kisses her cunt through her underwear, and it isn’t nice or soft or gentle; his mouth opens all hot and wide as his tongue presses against her even through the lace that’s stuck, wet and sticky from the way she pressed into his stomach in the elevator.</p><p>He makes a rough, groaning noise deep in his throat as Sofie’s breath catches on a whimper; his hands tightening on the back of her thighs as he presses his face harder into her cunt, his tongue pushing against her.</p><p>And even through the lace, that sticks more and more to the spread of her, it feels <em>amazing</em>. She can’t stop the noises that slip out of her at the feeling; her whole body lighting up, breath hitching high and uneven as she gasps and squirms beneath his mouth.</p><p>He looks up at her with a grin, pulling back only long enough to push his hands up her sides, to push the bunched-up tangle of her dress up over her chest until Sofie arches her back enough and lifts up for him to tug it over her head.</p><p>She can’t decide if she’s glad she didn’t bother with a bra or not, his eyes sink over her, and she knows she there isn’t a lot there for him to <em>look</em> <em>at</em>—but she’s pretty sure she can still see the bulge of his cock in his pants, even in the lowlight, mostly moonlight of his hotel room and that’s like, <em>pretty reassuring</em>, she thinks.</p><p>She grips onto the duvet, her hips twitching up at the feeling of the cold air on her skin, of the goosebumps spreading over her skin in the wake of his eyes, of him just looking—<em> just looking.</em></p><p>Her breath catches as one of his hands slides down the back of her thigh. Her pulse rockets, feeling every inch of his touch as he hooks his finger beneath the lace of her underwear and pulls it up and over to the side of her cunt—</p><p>And then he’s sinking back down, his mouth on her, hotter and slicker and hungrier than before. She can't even feel embarrassed about how wet she already is, how needy she feels, her hips twitching up against him mouth. Not even how spread open she is, his hands hooked into the back of her knees to hold her open for him to fucking <em>eat.</em></p><p>There's nothing but his tongue and teeth and mouth.</p><p>She gasps and it catches and twists into a whimpering moan, tears out of her chest as her back arches, as her hips roll at the heat of his mouth on her, as he sucks at her clit, his tongue flicking over it before he breaks away, licks her up in wide-tongued swipe, like he’s <em>tasting </em>her and then focusing right back onto her clit.</p><p>“Oh-<em>G-god,</em>” she whimpers, her hands white-knuckled, tearing at the duvet, legs shaking and toes curling as he eats her out in a way she isn’t sure that she knew <em>anyone could.</em></p><p>Her world narrows down to his mouth, to her hand gripping into his hair when he pushes her legs a little higher, bends her a little more in two and pushes his tongue over her core before licking back up to her clit.</p><p>She’s trembling, gripping at his hair and the duvet, her head tilting back, hair rubbing into a mess beneath her, but he keeps his tongue on her, keeps his mouth on her no matter how she squirms and curses and twists her fingers into his hair. Her orgasm rolls closer and closer, spilling and pooling between her hips, making her slicker and more sensitive, leaving her panting and squirming beneath his mouth, not able to move more than to quiver and tremble beneath him.</p><p>She hears herself getting louder, her moans breaking into twisted, desperate noises she’s only half-aware of because the other half of her mind stuck on the feeling that she’s about to come, that she’s never felt anything like it before and that feeling keeps growing and growing and growing—</p><p>Until it's breaking open inside of her, this too-bright, too-intense burn of this liquid-electric feeling that's sparking hotter and closer on every flick of his tongue.</p><p>Until her fingers twist into his hair and she’s sobbing out a broken <em>G-god—</em>her knees trying to press together as she comes in a rush, her toes curled so hard it <em>hurts</em>. So hard and so intense, Sofie can't do anything but gasp for breath and fall apart beneath him.</p><p>Henry groans into her cunt, spreading his tongue over her, letting her squirm against his tongue absently, her hips rolling and trembling in twitches and hitches until she’s coming down enough to not be just a mess of shaking muscles and gasping breaths. He keeps his hands iron-like on the back of her thighs, keeping her spread open as he <em>kisses</em> her clit, opens his mouth and licks her up again.</p><p>Sofie jolts, whimpering, panting and over-sensitive while pushing at his head. “God, <em>stop…</em>”</p><p>He chuckles, kissing her again before as he pushes her right leg up and over until it's pressed against her left, her lower-half curved sideways but her back still against the bed.</p><p>Sofie watches his eyes move over her, a flicker of a smile on his mouth as holds her legs pressed together with one hand locked around her ankles and presses them into the bed before he ducks down and sinks his teeth into the soft of her ass cheek.</p><p>Sofie gasps, letting him manhandle her, his teeth sharp and sinking in again as his hand strokes over her thigh, up the back of her leg, brushing over the sticky, wet mess he made of her and then—</p><p>His fingers sink inside of, two at once, pushing up and in and curling—</p><p>Sofie cries out, some strained noise that should be embarrassing, but she's too focoused on his fingers to care. She grits her teeth as he presses them deeper, it’s more than she’s had inside of her in a long time but it’s too good to care about the stretch, about that little bit of an ache that follows before it rolls into something good again. She’s too distracted by the thick of his fingers, hooked and focused on that spot inside of her that makes her feel like she’s burning up from the inside out. Or melting, maybe. Getting slipperier and messier and hotter, half-boneless and half squirming, twitching muscles.</p><p>“You’re fucking adorable,” he groans into her skin before biting her again, his fingers stretching inside of her before he straightens, looking down at her. His hair mussed from Sofie tugging at it, his mouth shiny in a way that makes her stomach tense and trip, knowing it's from her. Knowing that she came on his face<em>—</em></p><p>She wants to say something, wants to make him feel just as good, but she’s gripping the duvet again, her spine tightening, legs twitching and hips trying to roll as he curls his fingers inside of her.</p><p>His fingers stretch out again and he lets go of her top leg, pushing it up until Sofie gets the idea and hooks it over his shoulder. His still fully-clothed shoulder.</p><p>She groans, her head dropping back against the bed. “You’re still <em>dressed.”</em></p><p>He breathes a soft laugh into her ankle, nipping at it and curling his fingers harder, his eyes sinking over her body as she twitches and curses out, <em>Ohfuck—</em></p><p><em>Uh-huh,</em> he says and stretches his fingers out before pushing them deeper, his hand bracing on her other thigh, holding her spread open for him to look at.</p><p>Sofie covers her face with her hands and groans because he <em>can’t</em> be real, and she can the wet noise of his fingers sinking inside of her, feel them curl stretch, making her body spark before they slip out of her again. And then, as her hips twitch into the steady, focused stroke of his two fingers, she feels the brush of a third—</p><p>She tenses because two was a lot and three is—</p><p>Sucking in a breath, her back arches, her hands flying to grip into the duvet, her eyes clenching shut as she tries to adjust to the width of them.</p><p>And it takes her a minute to realise he’s stopped, that his three fingers are still and unmoving inside of her, that all she can feel is the stretch of herself around them, an ache from the width of them, the throb of her cunt as it clenches—</p><p>It’s kind of embarrassing. It’s kind of probably not what he signed up for, she thinks.</p><p>“Sorry,” she pants, gripping at the duvet. “One second.”</p><p>“Sofie,” he says, his voice rough and too low, and she feels like it’s impossible to focus, impossible to look at him, torn between the need to come again and having him stay still until that ache subsides.</p><p>“Kinda your fault,” she pushes out, blinking up at him and seeing the little crease between his brows, his eyes searching her face. His fingers somehow too much but not enough all at the same time. “You’re like, a big dude.”</p><p>She wants him to laugh, to brush it off and not have to explain that she’s really only been with her ex-boyfriend and he was definitely not <em>Super-fucking-man</em>.</p><p>His fingers slip out of her and she makes a little noise for the loss of them, but he’s leaning down, letting her leg curl loosely around his hip. He braces over her, and his eyes are <em>impossible</em> to read in the dark, moving over her face like he’s looking for something.</p><p>But she has no idea <em>what.</em></p><p>“You have done this before, right?”</p><p><em>Oh</em>, she thinks. <em>Right,</em> she can see how he might get the wrong idea.</p><p>She nods, trying to ger her hands to cooperate enough to reach for his shirt, fighting the tremble in them to work the buttons open. “I have very much done this before. I mean, not like, <em>this this,</em> but I’ve definitely had sex.” <em>With like, one guy,</em> her mind supplies, not that he needs to know that because her horizontal-history has absolutely no business being brought up, since she really does not want to know <em>his</em>. Like at <em>all.</em></p><p>“I’m not gonna break, Cavill.”</p><p>His chest shifts against hers as he huffs, but keeps looking at her, and it stretches into a too-long moment until she gets another button open and tugs at his shirt, a noise in her throat that she hopes conveys <em>take it off, please.</em></p><p>Henry leans back and she watches him tug off his shirt, his eyes moving over her, sinking down to where she’s still very wet and very bare, with her underwear still stuck-sticky on one side of her cunt.</p><p>She has to bite her lip, both for the way he looks at her and the way <em>he</em> looks, thick and muscled and like… well, <em>Super-fucking-man.</em></p><p><em>But like, hotter</em>, she thinks,<em> less about showing them off and more… real. </em></p><p>
  <em>Thick.</em>
</p><p>It’s strange to think she’s seen him shirtless before, that <em>millions</em> have seen him shirtless before, but it’s somehow so fucking different in the moment. Sofie plants her feet on the bed, pushing herself up—</p><p>Before he pushes her right back down again and when she opens her mouth to complain his mouth hits hers, swallowing her words as he tilts his head and all there is, is the stickiness of his cheeks, the taste of herself on his tongue, the weight of him above her as he lowers himself down to his forearms, settling thick and hot between her hips until she can feel the thick of him, the weight of his cock even through his pants.</p><p>She’s pretty sure that’s more than three fingers.</p><p>His mouth breaks away from hers and she breathes hard over his shoulder, at the searing feeling of his skin against hers, at the prickle and scratch of his chest hair that does <em>something</em> to her insides; the way the muscles in his back and shoulders shift and tense beneath her hands as he sucks a mark into her neck, his hips grinding between her legs. She groans, gripping harder, sinking her hands down his back, feeling the flex of his muscles, the tense of his body, the roll of his hips between hers.</p><p>Henry kisses down her chest, shifting a little to balance on one arm, his mouth hitting her breast, his breath puffing hot and damp before his mouth closes around her nipple.</p><p>She hitches a noise at that little trill of feeling, that sparking warmth of his teeth scraping her nipple before his tongue chases the peak.</p><p>She’s distracted by his tongue and his teeth and that trill until she feels his fingers slipping along the inside of her knee, stroking slippery over the stickiness on her skin, slicking her inner thighs. </p><p>Henry groans, his fingers stroking lower, stroking over the soaked, slippery heat of her until he turns his hand and sinks two fingers back inside of her.</p><p>She sucks in a breath, her hips twitching up as he curls them, teases the nerves inside of her before straightening them out and pushing them a little deeper. She hitches a noise, turning her head into his arm, gripping at the thick of it while her other hand grips at his back.</p><p>"<em>Fuck, Sofie,</em>" he groans before sucking a mark into the little curve of her breast and Sofie twitches, whimpering as he works his fingers inside of her even slower than before.</p><p>On the <em>edge</em> of too slow, she thinks, as her nails sink into the flexing muscle in his back. She tries to roll her hips up, to urge him on, but he bites at her nipple and she somehow knows it’s a warning.</p><p>He stays slow and sure, working his fingers inside of her, pushing deeper and curling them before stretching them a little more each time… until she’s panting and squirming beneath him, feeling the weight of his cock, still trapped in his trousers against the inside of her thigh. Lets him suck and kiss over her chest, back up her neck, nips at her jaw and kisses her cheek… breathing in the noises she makes, his mouth hovering over hers, his eyes on hers, as he pushes another finger inside of her.</p><p>It’s easier this time, and it leaves her rolling her hips into it, his thumb slippery as it presses over her clit, fingers hooked and rubbing steadily inside of her until she has to break her mouth away from his, crying out as he rubs harder, curls his fingers and stretches them out, twists them up again, his thumb slipping heavily over her clit every time she rolls up into it.</p><p>“Please,” she cries, her head tilting back, his mouth on her neck, his breathing rougher than before. “Please, please—”</p><p>"A bit more," he says roughly into her neck. "C'mon."</p><p>Sofie shakes her head, gripping at him, her nails scratching into his skin as her <em>please's</em> trip out of her. She isn’t even sure what she’s asking for, to come, for him to fuck her, for <em>more</em> or less, to stop or to keep going. To <em>never</em> stop, maybe.</p><p>Her nails sink in as another orgasm burns brighter and she arches beneath him, feeling his mouth on her nipple again, his fingers merciless, his thumb heavy— and everything breaks apart, shatters into something electric-tipped as she comes, clenching down on his fingers still inside of her.</p><p>Henry curses, his teeth sharp on her breast, stretching his fingers, pushing them deeper like he’s enjoying just feeling her come around them.</p><p>And then he's pushing up and back, his fingers slipping out of her and his hands flying to his belt, Sofie watches him, his fingers shiny and wet from being inside of her, tearing at his belt when he stops suddenly, and curses. He pushes off the bed and leaving Sofie blinking at the ceiling.</p><p>She tilts up and props herself on her elbows, watching him disappear into the bathroom, she hears him rustling through something and frowns until he comes back into the room, something shiny and square in his hand.</p><p><em>Right</em>, she thinks, a condom would be a good idea.</p><p>He stops at the edge of the bed and Sofie is all too aware of the cold on her skin, all the wet, sticky places between her thighs and feels her cheeks burn as he takes his time looking at her.</p><p>She drops back on the bed and groans, trying to tuck her foot around his back to nudge him forward.</p><p>Instead, he takes hold of her ankle and drags her to the edge of the bed, before he leans forward and braces on his forearms, kissing her until she’s wrapping her legs around his middle; Sofie enjoys the width, the stretch of her thighs to fit him in between.</p><p>He breaks away from her lips, mouthing over her cheek, nipping at her jaw, down her neck in slow, lazy, hot kisses that makes her feel… warm, <em>special</em> in a way she isn’t sure she wants to feel. It settles strangely in her stomach, the awareness of this only being a one-off, and it curdles the edges of her orgasm-haze, making her more aware of being naked beneath him, of him still being half-dressed.</p><p>His hand slips over her leg, up along her thigh, cupping her hip and her side, a steady stroke that feels… it trips something in her chest and she thinks she needs him to fuck her or she’s going to lose her mind.</p><p>“You gonna fuck me sometime today, Cavill?” she teases, but it’s breathless, too desperate to be as easy and careless as she wants to seem.</p><p>He nips her neck. “Shut up, Sofie.”</p><p>She breathes a soft laugh. He leans back, and Sofie can’t do anything but watch him push down his trousers, the metallic clink of his belt hanging loose as he shoves the front of his underwear down just enough for his cock to fall out, hanging thick and heavy and—</p><p>And she has to bite her cheek as her insides clench, trying not to react because he has to know he’s… fucking <em>big — </em>and she doesn’t want him to second guess fucking her.</p><p>And really, a dick like that is like, once in a lifetime, right?</p><p>She can totally do this.</p><p>She watches him roll the condom on, watches him stroke himself, the thick of his cock in his fist. Watches the way his chest tenses and his muscles flex with a grunt because he’s been hard since they started and she’s come twice already. (She's somehow charmed by that, too.)</p><p>And is also very thankful for him using three fingers.</p><p>Man of Steel in-fucking-deed.</p><p>Henry grips one her thighs, letting his cock rub over the spread of her cunt, watching the condom get shiny and wet as it glides, thick and heavy over her mound and up onto her stomach.</p><p>Sofie can’t look away.</p><p>He nudges her entrance, his hand tightening on her thigh before his eyes flick up to hers.</p><p>Her thigh trembles, he presses in a little more and Sofie drops back against the bed, breathing out and gripping onto the duvet feeling the weight of his cock, the fat head pressing against her, impossibly big, impossibly hot...</p><p>He makes a noise, and she feels the thick of his arm curving beneath her waist, feels him tug her body up and into his before shoving her up the bed until they’re both in the middle of it, and then he’s kissing her, hard and hot and hungry again.</p><p>Sofie moans into it, her palm sliding over his bicep before digging her nails into the tense heat of his skin.</p><p>His hand cups her cheek, the other slips between them and this time, when he lines himself up, Sofie clenches her eyes shut at that first aching push, her nails scratching into his bicep, the other bracing on the thick of his shoulder, the hardness of his muscles tensing beneath her palm.</p><p>He's thick and hard and <em>too big, too big</em> as he pushes into her.</p><p><em>Sofie,</em> he groans, barely inside of her at all and still, somehow, too much. <em>Open your eyes, baby.</em></p><p><em>Baby</em>, she thinks, her mind spinning, her body strung-tight, breathing through that aching stretch of his cock inside of her, <em>baby babybaby</em>—</p><p>He stays still, nothing more than an inch inside of her, his mouth slipping along her cheek, over her jaw, back up to her lips that are pressed together as she tries to relax.</p><p>So much for seeming like she knew how to handle a hook-up, she thinks.</p><p>“Fuck you,” she whimpers. “Oh my <em>God</em>.”</p><p>He huffs a laugh over her cheek, nipping her jaw. “Open your eyes, Sofie.”</p><p>And she does, pressing her palm against his chest, feeling the scratch of his chest hair and the thump of his heart beating against her hand as she looks up at him. He kisses her once, soft and almost too sweet for what she thinks this is supposed to be.</p><p>But then he presses deeper and she breaks the kiss, panting against his mouth, curving her knee up higher along his side as he sinks inside of her like she can find more room in her own body, open herself more for him.</p><p>She isn't sure it works.</p><p>He’s long and thick and feels <em>endless. </em>All she can feel is the throb of him, every inch, every vein, feels like he’s deep enough that she’s going to fly apart if he keeps going, feels like she can feel him in her <em>throat</em> as he sinks deeper, stretches her, carves himself a place inside of her body.</p><p>Henry watches her through it all, dropping his head just a little to give a rough, cut off groan against her cheek when she feels the tense of his stomach, the flex of his muscles against the back inner curve of her thigh, where her knee is tucked between them.</p><p>Sofie trembles, strung-tight beneath him, stuck and weighted because he’s a big fucking bastard and she <em>hates him</em>.</p><p>“You do not,” he huffs, but it’s rough and just a little too thick against her cheek, his teeth sharp on her jaw. Sofie flushes, realising she said it out loud.</p><p>He kisses her again, deeper and deeper until she’s twitching beneath him, feeling stuffed and achy with a need to feel him move. The stretch of him, the heat and weight and burn of his cock inside of her... Sofie can feel herself trembling, feel her cunt clenching at him, the pressure builds and builds and he <em>needs</em> to move, <em>just move— </em>she says, breathless and needy.</p><p>And then he does—</p><p>And it’s <em>perfect.</em></p><p>And terrible and wonderful and too much and not enough all at once.</p><p>She’s pretty sure he’s going to break her for anyone else.</p><p>He’s thick and long and every push inside of her makes her breath hitch— the stretch and building ache of <em>too much</em>, the heat that spills like syrup, spilling her closer and closer to the edge...he goes slow, stays steady until her hips start to roll with his, as her back climbs—<em> can't</em> stay still, <em>can't</em> move beneath the weight of him, <em>can't</em> stop her voice from breaking, hitching noises, straining and trembling beneath him—</p><p>It aches in this full-body sort of way that she doesn't know what to do with, just that she feels so <em>full.</em></p><p>She's not even sure he's all the way <em>in.</em></p><p>She feels him lean back, feels him brace a hand beside her head, pushing her knee a little further between them, till it's pushing against his chest instead of his shoulder, but she’s too caught up in feeling his cock slide in and out of her to care what he does, so long as he keeps <em>moving.</em></p><p>He builds a steady, slow rhythm, inching, slow thrusts... his cock coming out shinier, slicker, as he fucks her towards another orgasm. Sofie gets wetter, gets slicker, until she’s sure they can both hear the wet slide of his cock, slipping in and out of her; his breathing rougher, harder, his hand gripping at her thigh as Sofie gets closer and closer to the edge, can feel it burning brighter inside of her, sparking and electric-tipped—</p><p>Her back climbs, one hand white-knuckled in the bedspread, the other clawing at his arm. Henry watches her, his eyes dark, like the sight of her alone is enough to get him off. Her chest trembles at the sight, at the feeing— spine tightening, voice hitching out— <em>oh g-od, </em>feeling her cunt clenching around his cock.</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>—” he grunts, and Sofie whines, almost cries when he pulls out of her suddenly, but all he does is slip off the bed and haul her ass to the edge, pushing back inside of her quicker than before.</p><p>Her back arcs, choking out a strained <em>of-fuck- </em>his hands bruising in their grip on her hip and thigh, her knee pushing against his chest as he holds her in place and fucks her.</p><p>It builds like nothing she’s felt before, the weight of him inside of her, stretching her on every push in, almost too deep, almost too much— until it is too much, too deep, too thick and all she can do is cry out, trembling and shaking and gripping onto shoulders as he leans forward, his hips knocking into her leg between them, rough and unsteady and right on the edge of <em>too fucking much</em>.</p><p>And she comes, clenching down around him, only aware of him following her over the edge because of the rumble in his chest, the rough groan of his voice as she tucks her head into his neck, his body heavier over hers when he leans forward, hips still moving, leaving her stuffed full and quivering, mindless and lit up from the inside out.</p><p>It takes her a stretched-out, mindless, too long lull of time to find the edges of herself and gather them back together, even longer to make her mind <em>work. </em>There's no thought in her head, no words to explain the feeling inside of her...</p><p>Henry breathes into her temple, one hand stroking over her side, the other braced and knotted in her hair spread out above her head. It feels too nice, having him touching her that way.</p><p>“Good job, Cavill,” she pants, swallowing heavily and patting him on the shoulder. “You’ve redeemed yourself.”</p><p>He huffs into her hair, pushing up onto his hands, his cock slipping out of her in a way that makes her wince and bite back a noise, both for the loss of him and the ache that settles in instead. Because he isn’t exactly <em>small.</em></p><p>He pushes up the rest of the way, breathing hard, a sheen of sweat over the muscles of his body that somehow, turns her on and makes her feel the chill in the room without his body over hers; her skin pebbling, overly aware of how naked she is, while he still has his pants on. Just the front of them undone, his cock hanging thick and long, even softening the way it is. </p><p>He’s unfairly attractive, she thinks as she watches him pull off the condom. His chest flexing, his biceps and forearms... the way the longer hair on the top of his head falls, sticking just a little to his forehead as he looks down to tuck himself back into his pants.</p><p>She swallows, pushing herself up, the sweat and cold air on her body making her overly aware of the awkwardness post-sex. All that emotion, and it’s nothing more than cum in a condom, tied off and tossed into a bin with a wet, hollow <em>thuck</em>.</p><p>Sofie bites her cheek, slipping off the edge of the bed, wincing a little at the ache settling in between her thighs, her skin sticky and gross and— she thinks maybe it’s time to call it, Time of Death of the moment. She got what she came for, didn’t she? And he did too, right?</p><p>That’s what this was all about, anyway, wasn’t it? A momentary attraction, a <em>distraction</em> from real life—</p><p>A thick arm wraps around her middle, dragging her back into the weight of his damp chest. It should be gross.</p><p>
  <em>It’s not.</em>
</p><p>“Where are you going?” he asks, his voice rough, <em>sex-rough</em>, she thinks, fucked-out and deep in a way that makes her insides heat up again. He presses his mouth to her shoulder; she hates how much she <em>likes</em> how far he has to lean down to do it. “You don’t think that’s it, do you?”</p><p>Sofie has no idea what she thinks, only that somehow, the only thing on her mind is having him back inside of, even as her body protests every movement.</p><p>“No,” she says, even though that’s <em>exactly</em> what she was thinking. She turns in his arms, reaching up until she can wind her arms around his shoulders and he’s lifting her, his hands gripping her ass cheeks to pull her up— his eyes darkening as her cunt, slippery and hot, slides against his abs and Sofie can’t help but twitch into the pressure. “Just didn’t want to wear you out, old man.”</p><p>His eyebrows shoot up as he makes a noise in his throat. “Old man, huh?” he says, his hand lifting off the grip he had on her ass before bringing it back down with a sharp <em>smack!</em> The sting makes her shriek and jolt in to him with a laugh as he growls,<em> I’ll show you old man, a</em>nd tosses her back onto the bed like she weighs nothing, and when he crawls over her, with a sharp-toothed grin, Sofie laughs into their kiss.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>soo how would we feel about a Henry POV? Maybe? </p><p>Hope you guys enjoyed it, I hope the smut was enjoyable. I can't write short smut scenes apparently.  :)</p><p>Now here: thhimble.tumblr.com</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p>          Sofie wakes warm and weighed down. It takes her a few slow blinking, heavy-lidded moments to understand both where she is and what the heat pressed up against her is.</p><p>
  <em>Henry.</em>
</p><p>She swallows, her heart tripping, a fluttering of heat and nerves in her belly that spreads outwards, fills her—</p><p>Just like he did, <em>just like he did</em>, her mind fills in with a surge of images and feelings wrapped up in memories of him moving over her and inside of her and—</p><p>Sofie shifts and bites her lip, feeling the ache spread through her body, feels bruised but— but <em>hot</em>, achy in a way she’s never felt before. All along the inside of her thighs, (from their stretch around him,) between her hips, (from the weight of him moving between them,) something deeper than that, a bruise-ache inside of her that feels heavy and sticky and too hot (from the thick of him inside of her.)</p><p>Feels it build the longer she lies there, realising the weight over her middle is Henry’s arm, thick and warm, curving over her waist, keeping her tucked against his body with a sleep-heavy hold.</p><p>He feels… <em>big</em> behind her. Almost too hot and heavy, a brand of hard muscles and sleep-stuck skin, a brush of chest hair, leg hair, that feels completely different to her ex—</p><p>Which settles strangely in her gut, because Henry isn’t a boyfriend or an ex or even really a <em>date. </em></p><p>He isn’t really anything to her, is he?</p><p>She kind of wants to roll over and wake him and ask him what the standard procedure is. What happens post-hookup? After the… however-many rounds he took her through last night, after apparently falling <em>asleep</em> with him… she isn’t sure what she’s supposed to do <em>now</em>.</p><p>If someone had asked her before today, <em>what do you do post-hookup? </em>she would have said that leaving as soon as it was done would be the best choice, that slipping out before the morning could ruin the night would be the way to go about it.</p><p>Like, doesn’t everyone always say that morning-afters are the worst part of the whole…<em> Thing?</em></p><p><em>Right</em>, she thinks, <em>that decides it, doesn’t it? </em>He probably expects her to be gone, doesn’t he? That’s the most logical thing to assume, if they hadn’t fallen asleep, he probably would have gently, British-Charmingly, lead her out the door.</p><p>Wouldn’t he have?</p><p>
  <em>So nice to meet you, lovely fuck but I really must be off.</em>
</p><p>(<em>He doesn’t even sound like that,</em> she thinks.)</p><p><em>But probably</em>, she thinks, blinking into the slowly lightening sky outside the floor to ceiling glass windows of the hotel room; telling herself to get up, that she should go before she has to deal with the awkwardness of leaving when he’s awake. What do you even say to someone who gave you more orgasms in a night than your ex-boyfriend gave you like, <em>ever</em>?</p><p>Nice to meet you, thanks for the orgasms?</p><p><em>Ugh</em>, she thinks and decides it's now or never, no matter how nice it is, stuck sleep-warm against him, his arm still weighing her fucked-sore self down in the nicest sort of way.</p><p>(And it is nice<em>, too nice</em>, makes her want things she definitely shouldn’t, more than just the fantasy of rolling closer and seeing if she could wake him for one more round.)</p><p>For the <em>memories</em>, you know? (or the spank-bank/rub-club, if she were being <em>completely</em> honest.)</p><p>Shoving the thoughts away, Sofie shifts slowly towards the edge of the bed; biting her lip as her body protests, feeling like a stretched-out piece of taffy slowly pulling itself back together. But she keeps going, feeling him shift once, a heavy sigh that makes her freeze, gripping the sheet, all the more aware of her cowardly slink towards the floor and her very, very naked small self.</p><p>The room stays quiet. Sofie’s pretty sure she isn’t breathing.</p><p>He doesn’t wake up.</p><p>With an even slower slide, Sofie slips off the bed in an embarrassingly unattractive <em>flop</em> and slides like she’s a boneless little snake towards the floor.</p><p>She bites her cheek as Henry rolls onto his back in the bed; a frown between his brows, but his eyes stay closed, his chest moving slowly, breathing deep and even, the sheets riding low on his waist in a way that makes her cunt ache more than it does already, with that bruised feeling of being fucked by—</p><p>
  <em>That.</em>
</p><p>The half-hard line of his cock is a thick bulge beneath the thin sheet, <em>barely</em> covered by the sheets, not at all, in any way,<em> unnoticeable.</em></p><p>She shivers, the night before in her mind, his cock pushing into her, thick and hard and shiny from fucking her.</p><p><em>Jesus, </em>she thinks, want spilling between her hips all slippery and warm. But she forces herself to move, ignoring the ache in her lower body (that's somehow both awful and amazing all at once), peering into the barely-dawn light for her dress and her clutch—</p><p>She sneaks around the room, feeling more nervous the longer she’s naked and shivering in the quiet, stealing glances at the man (<em>and his dick</em>) still sleeping in the bed.</p><p><em>Ahah</em>, she breathes out in a high little whisper, spotting her dress, crumpled up and half-hidden beneath the spilling, tangled-up duvet that somehow ended up nearly completely off the bed.</p><p>She tugs it over her head quickly, and gathers up her shoes, sparing a thought to her underwear that he tugged off sometime well into the night, (after it was nothing more than a twisted-up bit of lace stuck to her skin and digging into her hips.) But when she can’t find it on a quick scan, Sofie hopes the maids won’t hate her for it and steals one last glance at the bed and the man—</p><p>Blinking sleepily at her, his hair dark and curling against the white pillows.</p><p>Sofie freezes, stuck in place with her heels clutched to her chest.</p><p>Neither one of them say anything.</p><p>Sofie’s pretty sure her mind has blacked-out.</p><p>Henry shifts, the thick of his arm tensing and flexing as he scrubs a hand over his face and through his hair, pushing out a heavy breath.</p><p>Sofie bites her cheek because he’s harder than he was before, she can see it as his stomach tenses and flexes as he tucks his arm behind his head— the sheet slipping lower—</p><p>And she really does not want to hear anything come out of his mouth unless the words are, <em>still friends</em>? Even though she’s pretty fucking <em>sure</em> they aren’t <em>friends</em> and what is she, <em>twelve</em>? She can’t be his <em>friend</em>, he’s <em>thirty-four</em>, he probably has tons of friends and she lives in <em>Maine</em> and he’s a fucking international <em>celebrity</em> and she—</p><p>She feels so fucking <em>stupid</em> it makes her want to cry.</p><p>His eyes sink over her, and she clutches her shoes so hard to her chest she thinks the heels will bruise her ribs. His mouth opens and Sofie—</p><p><em>Panics</em>.</p><p>“This was great, I had a really great uh— night— thing, and thanks, you know for the orgasms and I—” <em>ohmygod, Sofie, stop talking! </em>She moves towards the door but she’s pretty sure the door is a thousand miles away suddenly, or that she’s lost in the fucking desert and that door is nothing more than a fucking mirage because she isn’t <em>out</em> of it yet— “So thank you, yup.”</p><p>But then the door handle is real and <em>there</em> and Sofie thinks she might cry from relief when it opens on the first tug and she’s darting out into the hallway and stumbling on shaking, unsteady legs towards the elevator.</p><p>And then— and then she’s in the elevator and it slides shut and there’s nothing but too-happy elevator music and she stands there, staring at the numbers above the shiny metal doors while clutching her heels to her chest and becoming more and more aware of what she just did.</p><p>
  <em>Thanks for the orgasms.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thanks for the   o r g a s m s.</em>
</p><p><em>It’s official</em>, she thinks, there is actually something <em>literally </em>wrong with her.</p><p>In the mirrored wall, the girl staring back at her is wild-haired and flushed-up, marked-up—</p><p>Because he had sharp teeth and a heavy, too hot mouth. Because he kissed her and touched her and fucked her—</p><p>And she just <em>thanked him.</em></p><p>
  <em>For the </em>
</p><p>
  <em>o r g a s m s.</em>
</p><p>Sofie squeezes her eyes shut, feeling like she’s about to panic, heart racing, jittery with nerves; still clutching her heels like it’s the only thing keeping her together.</p><p>The elevator dings.</p><p>Sofie rockets out like Bambi sliding across the ice. She hopes to God her mother isn’t next door, fumbling her keycard out of her clutch and pushing into her room like her life depends on it. Which it might, because she might <em>literally die</em> if anyone sees her like this.</p><p>The room is <em>silent.</em></p><p>She moves on autopilot, dumping her clutch on the side table and ripping the covers back on the bed before crawling into it and tugging the covers up to her chin.</p><p>Out the window, the sky grows lighter.</p><p>Sofie pulls the covers up over her head and clenches her eyes shut.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>          She wakes, hours later, to Henry’s cologne wrapped around her like it’s a touch of its own. A heavy-handed caress or a slick-mouthed trail over her skin that’s more memory than reality but there all the same.</p><p>He’s in her hair and on her skin, lingering like the bruise-ache she feels when she stretches out beneath the cool sheets.</p><p>She can’t decide if it’s a good feeling or not—</p><p>No, that’s a lie. It definitely is a good feeling. It’s just… <em>heavy</em>.</p><p>Makes her want to wrap herself deeper beneath the covers, linger in the memory of him a little longer, take the time to map out her body in the memory of all the places he touched her…</p><p>But that’s crazy, right?</p><p>That’s… <em>too much.</em></p><p>But her hand unclenches from the grip it has on the sheet and she brushes it over the side of her breast, where she remembers the pressure of a biting-sort of kiss, his tongue chasing the sting of it—</p><p>And then a knock breaks through the quiet beneath her blankets and Sofie grips the sheet again, her heart surging.</p><p>“Sof-bee?” her mother calls, pushing into the room and she curses herself for not shutting her side of the door. “Are you still sleeping? It’s past nine.”</p><p>“I’m awake,” she mumbles, drawing her legs closer to her body, praying her mother leaves quickly because her dress might be slinky enough to be <em>nightie-like</em>, but Sofie tends to wear old, oversized t-shirts to bed and there’s no easy way to explain her sudden change in pyjama choices.</p><p>Not to mention she’s pretty sure her body is a map of Henry’s teeth and tongue and who knew he was like <em>that</em> in bed.</p><p>Are all charmingly-British, stupidly-attractive men that… manhandle-y? Bite-y?</p><p><em>Ugh</em>, she thinks, as the memory of it sparks inside of her, <em>don’t think about it right now, Sofie.</em></p><p>“I’m heading out for a bit with some colleagues—” Read as<em>: Doctor Parish</em>, Sofie thinks. “But tonight I thought we could have dinner in the hotel restaurant.”</p><p>“Sure,” she says. Read as: <em>please leave now. </em>“Great.”</p><p>“Great, maybe we can jet out before dinner, buy something new for you to wear?”</p><p>Sofie frowns beneath the blankets, her eyes narrowing at nothing, listening to her mother’s soft-footed steps back into her own room, the sound of her door shutting… and knows, somehow, she just agreed to a dinner that probably isn’t <em>just</em> a dinner.</p><p><em>Crap, </em>she huffs, pushing her face into the pillow and groaning into it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>          Sofie isn’t going to say she spends the day hiding.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>But she spends the day hiding.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She Snapchats with her friends (after making sure there’s nothing on her neck they can see) and has to talk herself out of calling Sara and not just word-vomiting the whole thing to her in a disgusting rush of TMI— Because while she’s sure she won’t be <em>judged</em> for it, she isn’t even sure how to <em>say it</em>. In any way that isn’t just absolutely unbelievable.</p><p>(And, some part of her mind whispers, it’s <em>hers. </em>He’s <em>hers.</em>)</p><p>Which is <em>stupid, Sofie, you’re so stupid.</em></p><p>There’s a hotel movie channel that she’s lying to herself about watching. Keanu Reeves kills more and more people on screen, but she’s really been picking up and then putting down her phone every five minutes, half-hoping and half-dreading that he <em>might</em>—</p><p><em>No,</em> she tells herself, she <em>doesn’t</em> want him to text her. And he won’t, anyway, so it’s all a fucking waste of time to even think about.</p><p>It was a hook-up, that’s it. A one-time, one-night, one-off that won’t <em>ever</em> happen again. It can’t. He’s—</p><p>Apparently in Mission Impossible: Fallout which hits theatres this—</p><p>She locks her phone, tossing it onto the pillows beside her before grabbing the one she’s lying on and stuffing her face into it with a groan.</p><p>She’s so <em>stupid.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>* *</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>          Do you know that well-fucked feeling? That bruise-ache that people talk about when they say just how well they’ve been fucked?</p><p><em>No</em>? Yeah, Sofie isn’t sure she actually believed it was a <em>Real Thing</em> until today. Right <em>now</em>, even. With a lingering achy feeling between her thighs that won’t go away no matter what she thinks about or how she stands or sits or lunges across the floor until her legs ache in a different way in a desperate attempt to feel anything else other than <em>that ache. </em>But it only makes her <em>more</em> sore and leaves her chewing her cheek and dying a little as that ache settles into a low-thrumming arousal that won’t go <em>away</em>.</p><p>No matter that now she’s riding the elevator downstairs with her mother and dressed in her new dusty-pink, floral dress that is definitely too nice for a mother-daughter dinner. She isn’t sure if she feels irritated by her mother’s lie or just can’t focus enough to be mad about what might be waiting for her.</p><p>(Plus, her mother’s perfectly-done makeup and hair and <em>just</em>-<em>a-bit </em>too-tight dress is a pretty good giveaway, too, Sofie thinks.)</p><p>Sofie’s too focused on not just word-vomiting her whole night out to anyone willing to listen—which would be the <em>worst</em> seeing as it’s her <em>mother </em>and Sofie would rather chew glass— that she isn’t really paying attention to anything until she’s shaking hands with Doctor Parish, who isn’t <em>bad</em> looking, with his silver-fox-ish hair— But then—</p><p><em>Brently</em>.</p><p>Who has dry hands and a weirdly tight handshake.</p><p>
  <em>Brently. </em>
</p><p>Sofie glares at her mother.</p><p>Fucking<em> Brently.</em></p><p>Brently, not <em>Brent</em>, Brent-<em>ly</em>, apparently. Is attractive in a perfectly-parted-mop-of-brown-hair, prep-school, probably-was-part-of-a-rowing-team-or-country-club kind of way. White teeth, nice smile, nice shoulders beneath a sports jacket…</p><p>Brently is <em>nice</em>. He smiles when smiled at, has something clever to offer every conversation, jokes about school (that he just graduated from) and interning (which he is currently doing) he’s twenty-six (which is much better than thirty-four) he’s from a good family (Doctor Parish’s <em>nephew</em>) and—</p><p>And Sophie is <em>bored.</em></p><p>She’s so fucking bored that she doesn’t even care when her mother gives her the side-eye for ordering another drink, sticking the little straw into her mouth and smiling back at her, as innocent as she can pretend to be.</p><p>The drink is too flowery, but it’s got alcohol and sugar and it’s pretty much the only good thing about how this day is shaping up, she’s sore and tired and still so fucking <em>horny. </em>She definitely did not get enough sleep. Or maybe spending the day just <em>basting</em> in her own misery made her too-tired to put on a better show of faking it until she makes it but—</p><p>She hits the end of the drink with a loud slurp that makes her mother’s eyes turn icy. Sofie blinks, aiming for guileless, but she's pretty sure she ends up looking like a doe-eyed idiot.</p><p>Chewing a little on the straw, Sofie slumps against the booth back, still carefully not meeting Brently’s brown-eyed gaze.</p><p>It’s <em>super.</em></p><p>She debates another drink, looking over the restaurant and avoiding meeting Brently’s eyes again, because <em>that</em>, undoubtedly, unlike <em>some people</em>, she knows (<em>knew</em>, let’s be honest, Sofie, it’s done now.) is a <em>down-to-get-down</em> look<em>.</em> And it’s hard to even pretend to be <em>nice</em> to another guy when she’s pretty sure she’s still slippery from—</p><p> </p><p>From the man sitting at a table… just over Brently’s fucking shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>A man who’s smiling with a mouth that’s been between Sofie’s legs, gotten slippery and sticky from eating her out until she came on him. A mouth that’s kissed and bitten and marked up her body to the point that Sofie had to make sure to pick a dress that could hide all the things he left behind in the wake of his teeth and tongue and touch. (And some that she <em>still</em> had to cover up with makeup and the very carefully-planned drape of her hair.)</p><p>Her heart surges, fucking <em>surges</em>, her breath catching in her chest—</p><p>And then plummets like a fucking rock.</p><p>Because there’s a woman beside him, dark-haired and beautiful. Red-lipped and curvy from the flow of her hair to the swell of her breasts pushed up against her forearm on the tabletop and— and she touches Henry’s arm with perfectly-manicured nails (that make Sofie look at her own, short and blunt-edged unpainted nails) and he laughs at something she says, and— and Sofie feels so <em>stupid.</em></p><p>Absolutely fucking <em>stupid.</em></p><p>She tears her eyes away, feeling sick. She didn’t even <em>think—</em> it didn’t even cross her mind—</p><p>He might not be actually <em>single.</em></p><p>She thinks she might <em>actually</em> be sick.</p><p><em>Calm down. </em>She tells herself, <em>breathe. Don’t look—</em></p><p><em>No</em>, <em>don’t fucking look</em> back <em>at him</em>.</p><p>She keeps her eyes trained on her lap; her hand clenched into the flowy, dusty-pink hem of her dress. She can barely hear the conversation around her, it’s all just a buzzing noise in her ears. Lost beneath the beat of her pulse. She’s vaguely aware of the waiter coming by to take the dishes, to offer desert… but all her focus is on trying not to look—</p><p>But it’s too hard <em>not</em> to. The woman sits right next to him, pressed against his side; his arm isn’t around her but— but if they’re dating maybe they’re past that constantly touchy phase. (<em>Unlike the way he sat beside you at the club</em>, some traitorous, desperate part of her mind whispers.)</p><p><em>God</em>, she thinks, did she just fuck a guy in a relationship?</p><p>Why didn’t she Google-Creep him better?</p><p>She does her best to keep her eyes off of him. Telling herself that this is why hookups are a bad idea. That <em>this</em> is why she snuck out. That she knew what this was from the beginning. Didn’t she?</p><p>
  <em>Didn’t she?</em>
</p><p>Sofie tries to school her face, hoping no one else can hear the too-loud beat of her heart while she wonders if the room is spinning or if it’s just her. Did it get colder in here?</p><p>Her phone vibrates against her thigh beneath the edge of the table and Sofie thumbs it open, looking for a distraction—</p><p>And almost drops it.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Henry: What’s with the face?</p>
  <p>Henry: :(</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Her eyes dart up, finding his already on her all the way across the restaurant. His bottom lip pushes out a little when their eyes meet, an echo of that sad-face he just sent her.</p><p><em>He isn’t really texting me,</em> she thinks, <em>while he’s— maybe it’s not his girlf— maybe—</em></p><p>The woman says something, Henry looks away from Sofie and back to the woman beside him with a smile.</p><p>Sofie locks her phone, tearing her eyes away from his profile, trying to focus on Brently and his too-nice hair and his too-nice conversation.</p><p>But it doesn’t last long; like an itch that gets stronger and stronger the longer you ignore it, Sofie’s eyes dart back to Henry. Her phone buzzes just as he looks up from his lap and meets her eyes across the restaurant.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Henry: You alright?</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Her eyes flick to the woman at his side, turned just slightly toward Henry on the bench-seat and leaning closer to him even though she’s talking to the people across from them now.</p><p>Sofie looks back at Henry who’s frowning now, all the way across the distance between them.</p><p><em>No</em>, Sofie thinks, <em>not at all.</em></p><p>Pushing up from the table, Sofie blurts something about a stomach-ache and doesn’t even bother waiting for her mother’s answer before she’s up and moving, slipping past waiters and guests, carefully keeping her eyes away from Henry's table until she’s out of the restaurant and back into the main hotel lobby.</p><p>Pulling in a breath and feeling like she can finally breathe again, she heads to the elevators, trying to tell herself that she knew what this was, that there wasn’t any promises or even really any <em>dates</em>. He asked her to come with him to one club, they ran together—he’s completely and absolutely out of her league—</p><p>She knew this was only going to be a one-time thing. <em>She knew that.</em></p><p>The numbers above the elevator close in on the main floor, Sofie can see the pink-ish blur of herself in the shiny metal doors— and then a darker blur steps up behind her.</p><p><em>Shit</em>.</p><p>“Hey,” his voice burrs, low and warm behind her. Carefully quiet. Sofie <em>can’t </em>turn around. Can't look at him. “What’s wrong?”</p><p> “Nothing,” she says and closes her eyes for just a <em>moment; </em>she isn’t sure if that ache in her chest is anger or hurt or <em>both</em>, maybe, all at once. (Thinking about him and his hands and his smiles and the weight of him over her and <em>what the fuck, Sofie</em>,<em> it was one night.</em>)</p><p>His hand closes around her arm, just above her elbow. The elevator dings open and he lets her go again as people step out, bustling past, not even sparing them a second glance.</p><p>
  <em>Thank God.</em>
</p><p>She can practically feel the heat of him following her onto the elevator. “Sofie?”</p><p>Sofie winces, turning to hit her floor on the elevator panel, trying to hide her face behind the drape of her hair spilling over her shoulder. She can’t look at him, doesn’t trust herself to not just <em>blurt</em> something stupid. “I’m fine, just have a headache—”</p><p>He moves in front of her, his hand reaching for her again, wide and warm on her arm, holding her still as her head tilts up; an instinct to look up she can’t stop in time.</p><p>They’re standing too close, she thinks, as the elevator starts to climb floors.</p><p>He frowns, his eyes searching her face, something painfully, <em>honestly</em> confused in his expression that makes her… <em>something.</em></p><p><em>It was a bad idea, wasn't</em> it, she thinks and knows, right then, more than ever, that it was. </p><p>“Did I do something?”</p><p>She shakes her head, her heart pounding. <em>He smells too good,</em> she thinks, the heat of his hand on her skin, the heat of <em>him</em> standing too close to her, the angle of her body, tilted to look up at him.</p><p>“Did I hurt you last night?”</p><p>Sofie shakes her head, but she thinks about the woman in the restaurant. About his body over hers. About his cock and his mouth and his arm over her waist this morning—</p><p>“Sofie—” he pushes, something frustrated, worried in his voice that makes it rougher; quietly urging.</p><p>About never asking him if he was <em>single</em>—    </p><p>“Is she your girlfriend?” she blurts and curses herself, <em>smooth,</em> Sofie,<em> really smooth.</em></p><p>His hand tightens, just a little, his brows sinking deeper together before easing and he pushes out a huff of a breath like it all makes sense to him now. “<em>Ah</em>.”</p><p><em>Ah? </em>She thinks, what’s <em>ah</em>?</p><p>He steps closer, just one half-step, but it’s enough for Sofie’s back to hit the elevator wall, but unlike last night, he doesn’t lift her up; his hand cups the side of her neck, his thumb pressing into the curve of her jaw, tilting her head up higher, sending little sparks through her body as he leans down—</p><p>And Sofie barely gets a breath pulled in before his mouth is on hers. The kiss is slow, too sweet, <em>too fucking soft</em> and it takes every ounce of her willpower to not reach up and cling onto him.</p><p>The elevator slows suddenly, the doors ding— Henry steps back, smooth and quick, his arm lifting, hand dragging through his hair, hiding his face just long enough for the elderly couple to step on and turn to face the doors.</p><p>Sofie stands rooted, her lips still tingling.</p><p>The elderly couple rides up with them, talking softly, something about meeting family for dinner but Sofie’s too focused on the man next to her, a dark line in the corner of her eye, about his mouth on hers, about his hands on her, about—</p><p>
  <em>Ah.</em>
</p><p>The elevator slows and <em>dings; w</em>ith a glance to the floor number, Sofie steps out and doesn’t look back. (But she knows without looking that he’s following.)</p><p>Down the hallway, it’s too quiet, their footsteps muffled on the carpet. She swears her heartbeat gets louder and harder the longer they walk; the hallway seems <em>endless.</em></p><p>At her hotel room door, she fumbles for her keycard, palming it, angry at herself for being so— so—</p><p>For being such a <em>coward.</em></p><p>She turns, gritting her teeth, thinking about his kiss, about how <em>nice</em> she thought he was, about him saying <em>baby—</em></p><p>“I know I didn’t ask— I know this isn’t—it was just— but do you have a girlfriend?”</p><p>Something crosses his face and Sofie thinks it almost looks angry, but instead, he’s bracing a hand, just beside her head on the door behind her and leaning down. “I know you don’t know me, Sofie, but I’m not that kind of guy. And <em>if</em>— <em>if </em>I found myself <em>at all</em> even <em>tempted</em> to fuck someone else, I’d at least have the decency to break up with the girl I was with, first.”</p><p>Sofie bites her cheek, meeting the blue of his eyes, the stubble on his jaw, like he hasn’t shaved since the day before. She likes it. She wonders if he found her this morning, the way she found him on her body and in hair and clothes.</p><p><em>Shut up</em>, she tells herself, <em>stop being so desperate.</em></p><p>“Now,” he says, and somehow he’s plucking the keycard from her numb fingers and reaching behind her. “I’ve been thinking about you all day, Sofie, and I would really, <em>very</em> much, like to fuck you again. If you’re at all—”</p><p>Sofie tilts up, <em>rockets up— fucking lunges</em> like a fluffy ball of over-excited kitten and presses her mouth to his.</p><p>It’s stupid and desperate and she <em>doesn’t care—</em> wrapping her legs around his waist, one hand gripping into his shirt, the other nearly dropping her phone— and he’s got one arm wrapped around her middle, holding her against him as the other fumbles with the keycard; his mouth breaks away from hers just long enough for him to laugh out a thick-voiced, <em>there she is—</em></p><p>That does something sick to her insides, twists them up and liquefies them even as he’s moving his mouth back over hers and he’s carrying her into the hotel room. Again.</p><p>Some part of her, dulled and distant by him touching her and kissing her and the smell of him wrapping around her like another touch altogether, is screaming <em>this is a bad idea, Sofie—</em></p><p>But.</p><p>Does anyone ever listen to that voice?</p><p>(If they do, Sofie doesn’t want to know. She’s going to operate under the delusion that she isn’t the only one ignoring it.)</p><p>Henry presses her into the wall, just inside the doorway, his hands gripping at her thighs, palming them and sliding up to grip onto her ass.</p><p>His head tilts and he kisses her harder, his tongue brushing and slipping against hers, a noise in his throat when Sofie’s hand twists into his hair, pulling herself up and closer, pressing her chest against the hardness of his with a noise in her own throat, high and desperate and needy in a way that should be embarrassing but right now, doesn’t feel like anything but the truth.</p><p>A last chance to take a bit more of him home with her. Another memory or two. Bad idea or not.</p><p>Sofie grinds her cunt against his stomach, her breath hitching as his teeth sink into her bottom lip, kissing the sting before nipping over her jaw, his breath hard and hot over her skin.</p><p>“I’m not that kind of guy, Sofie, I swear,” he groans it, so low she thinks she can feel it sinking in his chest, routing into her cunt, pressing hot and slick against his abs.</p><p>Sofie nods, feeling his fingers shoving under the bunched-up hem of her underwear on her ass cheeks, fingers spreading wide to grip the globes of her ass, pulling her lower body into him harder. Her breath catches in a desperate noise that makes him scrape his teeth over her jaw.</p><p>“Tell me you believe me.”</p><p>Sofie nods, whimpering when his teeth scrape her pulse, when he presses her harder into the wall; the cotton seat of her underwear bunched and gathered in the slippery, achy mess of the spread of her cunt and getting wetter and wetter every second.</p><p>“<em>Tell me</em>,” he rumbles into her neck, with a purposeful, slow shift of his weight between her thighs.</p><p>The ache from last night is still there, but it’s somehow better and worse for it, like pressing on a bruise, one you can’t stop touching, a weird soreness that builds inside of her as she grips at his hair and tugs his mouth up to hers.</p><p>“Shut up, Cavill,” she pushes out, desperate and reedy before pressing her mouth to his; her body sparking at the way he overtakes the kiss, his tongue forceful, his teeth sharp, his mouth hot and perfect against hers. His hands slip off her ass, caressing all hot-palmed up her sides, lifting the bunched-up hem of her dress until he can yank it over her head.</p><p>His mouth sinks down her neck again, his hands on the straps of her bra, tugging them down, his mouth chasing her collarbone.</p><p>Over the small swell of her breast, Henry kisses and nips at her skin, moving her up the wall a little more with an ease that trips her up.</p><p>He kisses lower, reaching up to tug the front of her bra down until he can get at her nipple, his mouth hot and his teeth sharp as he nips it, sucks at it and then rolls his tongue over the peak of it.</p><p>Sofie twitches in his arms, pretty sure there has to be a wet spot on the front of his shirt by now from her cunt. She keeps squirming, panting, hitching sounds as he takes his time on her chest, kissing from one side to the other, leaving more and more marks in the wake of his mouth.</p><p>She pushes her fingers through his hair, a tremble in her fingertips, a neediness in her body that scares her, feeling empty and aching to be filled by him.</p><p>She tugs at it, squirming more until his mouth pops off her nipple and he makes a noise in his throat, the world spinning as he hauls her off the wall and towards the bed.</p><p>They hit the bed and Sofie breathes in the shock of cold duvet and the heat of him coming down over her. Henry leans back only long enough to tug off his shirt, looking down at her, spread out beneath him; the shine on her chest left in the wake of his hot mouth, the worried-pink peak of her nipples… flushing, Sofie leans up, reaching for his belt, tugging at it with eager fingers.</p><p>There’s a bulge in his trousers that makes her heart skip, her insides twist and tighten and spark, even though she already knows— has already felt the weight of him inside of her. Already knows the stretch and fullness and—</p><p><em>God, </em>she thinks<em>, this is a terrible fucking idea.</em></p><p>But the thought gets lost to Henry pushing her hands away from the button on his trousers, before reaching for her hips and curling his fingers into the waist of her underwear and tugging it up roughly. Her underwear is soaked, brushing cold and sticky against her skin as he pulls it off, but she’s too distracted by his hands pushing up the back of her thighs like they did the night before, spreading her open—</p><p>But this time there’s more than just moonlight in the room; a spill of yellow-orange light from a lamp on the bedside table that makes everything so much more <em>real</em>.</p><p>Sofie flushes, her body prickling with awareness as he holds her open, his eyes sinking over her, from her face over her chest to the spread of her cunt, shiny and aching and sticky with want.</p><p>When he ducks down, kissing her clit, his mouth opening just enough to tease the heat of his mouth, Sofie whimpers. Caught on the edge of needing him to eat her out the way he did before and wanting him to just… just fuck her.</p><p>Wants to get lost in the weight and pressure and mind-numbing build of his cock inside of her.</p><p>“You don’t have to—” Sofie chokes out, swallows the beat of her pulse, <em>eat me out</em>, she thinks, because her ex only did like, <em>twice</em>, and she always figured that most guys just didn’t <em>like</em> doing it. “You don’t need to, you know—”</p><p>He lifts a brow, his lips quirking up. But instead of moving away, instead of taking the offered out the way her ex probably would have, Henry reaches for one of her hands and brings it to the back of her knee. There’s a command in there, a direction that makes her other hand move on its own; gripping the back of her knees without him saying anything.</p><p>Her breath slips jaggedly from her chest as Henry’s hands slide down the back of her thighs like he’s testing to see if she really will hold herself open for him. When she does, even though she trembles, gripping tighter at the back of her knees, Henry leans forward, the beginning edges of a smirk on his mouth that gets lost to him kissing the spread of her, his tongue just teasing the swollen, needy ache in her clit.</p><p> “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he rumbles, his breath too hot, his voice too low, his hands sliding along the back of her thighs, over her ass and up her sides with the wide, warm weight of his hands. His mouth opens, his tongue hot and flat and slick against her, licking up over the spread of her, gathering up the slippery leak of her arousal to swallow down and leaving a teasing, too light kiss on her clit. “<em>All day,</em> Sofie. I almost had to jack off in an office bathroom today because I couldn’t <em>stop</em> thinking about it.”</p><p>Sofie bites her cheek, wants to tell him to shut up because this isn’t what this was supposed to be—this isn’t what these things are supposed to be like, are they?</p><p>But she’s watching his lips slide over her, watches his mouth open and groans at the feeling of him sealing it over the spread of her; his tongue licking her up, flicking over her clit, her thighs trembling when he focuses on it, the pressure in his mouth building until he’s sucking at it, flicking his tongue over it, making her head fall back, her mouth open and gasping—</p><p>And then she feels his thumb slip over her entrance, feels it circle it, brush around it as she clenches at nothing. The noise she makes is loud and needy, but all Henry does is suck harder at her clit, his tongue flicking over it, faster and more focused again and again and—</p><p>His mouth breaks away and she almost cries for the loss, but his thumb slides up, right through the soaking wet heat of her and rubs, hard and heavy and quick on her clit as teeth sink into her inner thigh. Sofie cries out, letting go of the back of her knees, her legs hitting his shoulders, trembling around his head as she twists one hand into his hair. He manages it all with a thick laugh into her thigh, turning his hand and pushing one finger up inside of her and curling it, steady and focused on those nerves inside of her.</p><p>“Oh <em>God</em>—” Sofie cries out, one hand gripping at the pillow behind her head. One finger becomes two too quickly, but she hitches a breath through the stretch of it, the soreness from last night that fades just as quickly as her orgasm builds inside of her, all sticky and too hot and too much to handle.</p><p>Henry’s mouth moves back to her clit, nipping at it before sucking at it, a steady pressure as he curls his fingers inside of her, hard and quick and merciless.</p><p>It hits her like a bolt of lightning, a sparking electric current, making her clench around his fingers, breathing in cotton and muffling her cries into the pillow she’s half tugged over her face, her thighs shaking around his shoulders, held open by the width of them.</p><p>His fingers slow, stretching out inside of her, a groan in his throat that makes her insides curl tighter as he leaves sloppy kisses over her cunt and mound and inner thighs.</p><p>She feels the twist of his hand, the shift of his fingers, the brush of a third just at her opening, slipping wetly through everything he just worked out of her. But he only teases the tip of it, Sofie watches him look down, whimpers for the sight of him looking at the spread of her around his fingers and pulls the pillow over her face even more.</p><p>He chuckles, kissing her cunt again, sloppy enough to make her twitch. His stubble pricks at her, hot in a way she can’t make sense of as he pushes that third finger a little deeper, the stretch feels like poking a bruise, a tease of what she knows his cock feels like, the memory of the night before and the reality of already being sore, of being filled and somehow, still left fucking <em>wanting</em>.</p><p>He leans up, her knees falling off his shoulders; his fingers slip out wetly, but he’s only stroking them over her cunt before sinking two all the way back in. Sofie whines and squirms on them, and when he tugs the pillow away from her face, she blinks up at him, feeling flushed and weirdly too-exposed, her cunt throbbing around his fingers, the heat of his body over hers—</p><p>And he’s still half-fucking dressed.</p><p>But then he’s kissing her and she can’t think of anything else but getting him inside of her, sore or not.</p><p>Reaching between them, she palms his cock through his trousers, a nervous thrill inside of her for the size of him, even knowing she’s taken him before. His hips twitch forward, a caught sound in his throat; his fingers pushing deeper into her, curling to make her squirm.</p><p>He swallows the noise she makes before sitting back on his knees, his fingers slipping out of her, shiny and slick and smearing on his trousers as he pushes them down far enough to tug his cock out.</p><p>His cock slides through the grip of his fist, spreading her wetness over it. He looks over her once, before leaning forward, planting his hand beside her head and kissing her hard, all teeth and tongue and a growing need she feels building up inside of her again.</p><p>She squirms beneath him, breaking her mouth away and looking down between them; watching the thick of his cock slip through his fist, the twist of his hand over the thick head, the corded length of his forearm—</p><p>“C’mon,” she whines, shifting beneath him, gripping his arm beside her head, trying to curve her legs around the thick of his body. “Fuck me.”</p><p>He bites her jaw, her pulse, his voice heavy and rough when he speaks. Almost irritated. “Can’t. No condoms.”</p><p>Sofie feels her whole body <em>sink</em> even as he strokes himself over her, a heavy grip, a twist over the head—</p><p>“I’m on the pill,” she hears herself saying, even as part of her mind is flashing a red alert for her to <em>shut up, shut up, shut up.</em></p><p>His hand stops, gripping at the base of his cock, the thick length of him heavy between her hips, right over her mound. <em>So close,</em> she thinks, <em>so</em> <em>close—</em></p><p>His breath puffs hotly against her neck. His whole body tense. Just the shift of his chest with his breathing.</p><p>“I swear I am.”</p><p>And then he groans into her neck, rough and low and desperate. <em>“Don’t fucking tell me that, baby—”</em></p><p>His hand comes off his cock, but instead of hiking her leg up and pushing inside of her like she’s desperate for, he spreads his hand over the thick of his cock, weighing it down against her mound, Sofie twitches on instinct, feeling the heat of it, the weight of it as her hips twitch up on some fucked-up instinct to push him closer; his cock spreads her lips, rubs against her clit and makes her breath catch and twist into a moan.</p><p>Henry curses.</p><p>Sofie does it again, knowing they’re both watching it; gripping at his arm for leverage, planting her feet on the bed and rolling up against the weight of his cock.</p><p>It’s perfect and terrible and wonderful all at once. Fucking hot to watch in a way she isn’t sure she thought anything could be; even better knowing he’s watching too, eyes moving between her face and the way her cunt slicks him, glides against the thick, veiny underside of his cock; her thighs trembling to keep going.</p><p>He doesn’t move to help her, doesn’t move more than a few twitches of his hips when the slick noise of her getting wetter gets loud enough to make her flush harder; makes him kiss her cheek, groan out a <em>fucking hell, Sofie.</em></p><p>Her cunt clenches around nothing, and she swears she’s near tears, sure she’s begging <em>please, please—</em></p><p>But it’s only when her foot slips on the bed and throws off the rhythm that Henry leans back, manhandling her legs until both are over one of his shoulders, the thick of his arm wrapping around them, holding them tight together and against his chest.</p><p>Sofie wants to beg him more, but all she can do is grip the duvet, watching as—</p><p>The long, too thick width of him pushes through her slippery, held-together inner thighs. Glides between them, coming out shinier as it slides over her mound and stomach— as he makes a cut-off noise in his chest.</p><p>His abs tense against the back of her thighs, chest hair prickling and skin hot as his arm holds her legs tighter against his chest, the other gripping her hip as he rocks his hips forward…</p><p>Sofie watches it, watches <em>him</em>; the thickness of him, from shoulders to arms, to chest…to the tensing flex of his abs, the shifting, heavy pulse of his hips, fucking forward against the back of her thighs, his hands bruising on her leg and her hip, keeping her still for him to <em>use</em>—</p><p>It probably shouldn’t turn her on as much as it does.</p><p>But it <em>does.</em></p><p>His cock brushes over her cunt, and they both make a strained noise at the feeling. Sofie braces a hand on the headboard behind her, her back arching as he loosens his grip before tightening it again, adjusts just enough that his cock rubs heavier, slipping thick and hard and heavy over her cunt.</p><p>He pushes harder on her thigh even as his hand slips a little from her hip, his body leaning a little heavier over her, more weight as he grips her side, his hips knocking harder; the thick, veined weight of his cock rubbing endlessly over her.</p><p>His strokes stay steady but fast; on every shove, every stomach-tensing flex, she can feel her back climbing higher, an itch building inside of her, sticky-sweet like syrup sliding over her tongue.</p><p>There’s an itch inside of her, a surging little flame as his cock rubs against her cunt and steals her breath all over again, that she wants to touch it, wants to touch that shine of wetness at the flushed, fat head and see if it’s just her still slicking him or if it’s his cum leaking and smearing onto her stomach.</p><p>“Can you come from this?” he growls out as she tries not to squirm too much, doesn’t want to lose the perfect—<em>fucking perfect</em> weight of it against her; her toes curling, her lower body trapped, feeling over-sensitive and yet—</p><p>She nods, jerkily, breathless and burning up, because she’s going to, she knows, can feel it hanging hot and warm in between her hips, dripping and building up and ready to pour out of her, and he must feel it, too because he grunts, grips her hard enough she knows she’ll have bruises. More of him to take home with her—</p><p>His cock catches on her entrance, but it’s too thick and she’s <em>soaked</em> and it slips over her, rubbing heavier against her clit. They both make a noise, Sofie’s hand tears into the duvet; his eyes move from where his cock rocks through her thighs to her chest and then her face and back down.</p><p>Faster, his cock pushing through her thighs, up over her belly, so long and thick it’s somehow both terrifying and mind-numbingly <em>hot</em> on every hard knock of his hips against the back of her thighs.</p><p>Sofie bites her cheek, her hips twitching, legs shaking—her head tilting back and hair knotting beneath her as Henry holds her tighter still, his cock merciless, rubbing against her—</p><p>And then she’s coming, cunt clenching around nothing, slicking him more as her spine tightens and her muscles tremble. Her head knocks into the headboard and her hand tears into the duvet as Henry curses; leaning over her more, hand moving from her side to plant above her shoulder— fucking her thighs harder, unsteady and so rough in his grip that it’d hurt if she wasn’t so strung out and boneless—</p><p>And he’s coming, cum spurting from her cunt to her breasts, cock sliding through her release and each pulse of his cum, hot and thick, shines in strips on her belly.</p><p>He curses, something rough and hard, hips grinding against the back of her thighs, his fingers white-tipped on her thigh as he pulses again, breathing hard, chest slick with the sheen of sweat, cock throbbing between her thighs and against her cunt.</p><p>It’s offensively hot.</p><p>But she’s mindless, boneless, panting beneath him, sweaty and slippery, feels used and dirty and sparking and <em>alive</em>—</p><p>Feels so fucking good she can’t <em>think.</em></p><p>She blinks up at him as he looks down at her, turning his mouth into her knee and pressing his lips to it, his breath puffing warmly over her skin as he catches his breath.</p><p>Henry drags a hand through his hair, leaning back, her thighs held loosely in his arm, still curved over one shoulder.</p><p>“Fuck me,” he pushes out, gravelly thick, and then turns and drops down beside her on the bed in a boneless sprawl of heavy muscles and too-big man.</p><p>Sofie can’t quite move yet, feels bruised and stuck, her legs melded together, her mind still floating away, no thoughts for anything but her body and his. Every sticky, slick inch of herself, and every place she’s still touching him.</p><p>His cock hangs from the still undone front of his trousers, softening but still <em>ohmygod</em>-big on his thigh.</p><p>He doesn’t seem to care.</p><p><em>Although</em>, she thinks, if she looked like him, she wouldn’t care either. Nothing at all on him to be ashamed about, is there?</p><p>Suddenly overly aware of her small, very naked body next to his, Sofie winces, looking down at the mess on her stomach and chest and thinks she should get up, should clean herself off, but Henry shifts beside her and when she glances over at him, his eyes are sinking over her, lingering hotly over where his cum pools in the dip of her bellybutton, shines in a splatter against the inner curve of her breast…</p><p>He shifts beside her, rolling onto one arm and propping himself up on his elbow. Sofie blinks up at him and he glances at her face before his hand slips over her side, over her ribs, his thumb brushing through a sticky line of cum on the swell of her breast, right next to a mark he left the night before.</p><p>She isn’t sure what she feels when he rubs it into her skin, but it’s something hot and heavy and spills inside of her like honey dripping from a spoon.</p><p>And then he does it again, to a splatter of cum on her belly, where it’s dripping towards the bed. Another, his hand sinking down her side, over her hip, rubbing his cum beneath his thumb, right in the sloping curve of her hip bone. On her mound, sticky and shiny with her own release and his cum.</p><p>His thumb brushes right over the top of her cunt, her thigh twitches and her chest trembles—</p><p>“Aren’t you going to say it?” he says, a gravelly low roll of his voice that she feels more than hears as it sinks into her body.</p><p>Sofie frowns, still lost in the haze of her body and watching his hand on her skin. “Say what?” she mumbles as his thumb brushes along the sticky outside of her cunt.</p><p>“<em>Thank you for the orgasms.”</em></p><p>Sofie freezes<em>— </em>her face burning up, her whole body <em>cringing</em> at the memory—</p><p><em>“Oh my God—”</em> she cries, cheeks burning, and reacts before she can think about it— the pillow hitting him in the face with a satisfying <em>thwack!</em></p><p>Henry laughs, catching the fluffy smack of the pillow before it hits him again, making her body slip towards his when she tries to tug it back to hit him again but he’s too strong for her to even have a chance to take it from him.</p><p>“You’re the one who forgot <em>condoms</em>!”</p><p>His head tilts back, his throat thick, chest shifting as he laughs, tugging her into his body by his grip on the pillow, embarrassed, cum-covered sticky body and all.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There's not enough non-penetrative sexy-times in stories, I think :) hopefully I'm not the only one.<br/>And I swear not every sex scene will take up half the chapter... and there will still be plot to come. Some tag updates will give you some idea of where this is going. </p><p>Next chapter will probably be some Henry POV. :)</p><p>Decided to say fuck-it to Anon, I'm here: thhimble.tumblr.com (but it's really just a thirst blog, imma be honest. Feel free to come thirst with me though.)</p><p>Hope you're still enjoying it and I can't thank you guys enough for reading and commenting, especially when RPF (and weirdly RPF for him) is such a small fandom. I appreciate it a lot and it's super motivating to keep writing &lt;3 Thank you! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>NOTE:</p><p>OKAY, firstly, firmed up my timeline so there's a slight change in him being thirty-four instead of thirty-five, but that's minimal and doesn't affect anything that's happened so far.</p><p>ALSO don't hate me. There's a weeeeeee bit of angst this chapter, but I need/want to be realistic about things and one of my biggest gripes about romances is that it's like wham! commitment/love/marriage right from the first date or first time they sleep together. And...I mean, I just don't think that's very realistic for how things tend to go in normal life. I mean, especially in a situation where people live two totally different lives and you know, there are hurdles here that make things complicated. Like their ages, which I will be doing my best not to gloss over. I like the hurdles, they make for a better story, imo :)</p><p>I like the messiness of real life.</p><p>BUT I will say right now, there will be no unnecessary drama. Just two people trying to figure their shit out and what they want/what they're willing to do to get it. Hopefully you're all down for that.</p><p>First little pov shift in this chapter, but only a liiiiiiitle one. More to come next chapter, I promise.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sofie wakes, sticky with sleep and warmth, to something brushing over her side.</p><p>It strokes over her hip, down her thigh, large and hot and long-fingered…</p><p><em>Oh,</em> she thinks, and blinks slowly into the sunlight streaming in through the windows; <em>we fell asleep again.</em></p><p>Henry’s hand sinks down her thigh, his fingers curving to cup the front of it as his palm and thumb soothes back up her leg. At her hip, his fingers brush the jut of it, dipping towards the slope to her sex; higher, over the curve of her side before he spreads his hand wide over her stomach and pulls her a little closer to the heat of his body behind her.</p><p>He’s hard, and not just his cock, but all of him, hard and soft and prickly in a way that makes her <em>prickle</em>, bubble-up like soda in a bottle; her pulse tripping when his mouth touches the back of her neck, his voice low and rough and more of a vibration against her spine than anything else.</p><p>
  <em>“Good Morning.”</em>
</p><p>Sofie turns her head into her pillow, trying to hide the smile she can’t stop from spreading. <em>Don’t be a loser,</em> she thinks,<em> it’s just a good morning.</em></p><p>But God,<em> his voice.</em></p><p>His fingers brush lower, over the still-sticky traces of his cum on her skin, (she isn’t sure how this happened, one minute they were laughing, the next they were making out and then he was on top of her again, his cock hard and heavy in the jut of her hip—)</p><p>And she remembers his arm over her stomach after, the glow of the lamp, still burning on the side-table, glowing orange beneath her eyelids. Remembers his breath, puffing warm on the back of her neck, his fingers slipping over a newly-smeared splatter of his cum on her stomach, a slow, absent-minded touch that got slower and slower and…</p><p>And now he’s spreading his hand wider, his hips pressing against the curve of her ass, his hand sliding lower… making her insides spark when they brush over her mound, tease the very top of her cunt before sliding away, a slow stroke up over the tense of her stomach to her chest. His fingers are rough-tipped in a way she’s surprised by… but also in a way that turns her on more for the way they feel on her breast, brushing over her nipple before palming it, (and it shouldn’t turn her on, how big his hand feels on her chest, but it <em>does</em>) tugging her into his body as his teeth scrape her pulse point, his voice low in her ear.</p><p>“No sneaking off this time?”</p><p>Sofie smiles wider into her pillow. Henry noses her neck, breathing her in (in a way that should make her uncomfortable, because it’s <em>weird, right?</em> but somehow it’s <em>not</em>), his hand slipping low again, sinking down her stomach all slow and warm and smooth. He moves slowly, unhurriedly, palming over her thigh, a long stroke towards her knee, his fingers curved, teasing along the inside of her thigh, until he’s gripping it, pulling it up and back, pushing his hips forward at the same time, curving her leg until it’s hooked around the back of his.</p><p>Sofie’s insides ignite like the slide of his hand on her skin is a flame, eating away at her as it slides back down her thigh, along the inside of it, his breath puffing warmer into her hair, his heart beating against her shoulder blade—</p><p>His cock slips forward on a slow roll of his hips against her ass, thick and hot and fucking— fucking <em>heavy</em>, right on the inside of her upper thigh, <em>right there</em> below the spread of her cunt, held open by her leg pulled up and back over his body.</p><p>Her chest trembles, her breath trips, Henry’s hand caresses over her hip, fingertips over her mound, onto her cunt— a noise in his chest, his head lifting, his mouth on her neck as his hips flex forward again, the hair on his chest and thighs prickle. It’s <em>too hot</em> beneath the covers, feels like she’s burning up, waiting for him to touch her, his cock a line of heat she can’t ignore, throbbing just beneath her cunt and his hand.</p><p>He strokes her clit with the pads of two fingers, dips them lower, where she’s already wet (from the night before, from now, from <em>both</em>) and his teeth scrape her pulse as his chest rumbles with a rough noise, his cock twitching—</p><p>And then he reaches lower, and she thinks, <em>thank god,</em> because sore or not, condom or not, she wants him to fuck her, needs him to fuck her, thinks she’ll <em>cry</em> if he <em>doesn’t</em>—</p><p>But all he does is drag his cock up, holding it against the spread of her and Sofie twitches, her whole body igniting at the girth of it pressing against her cunt, the thick of it against her clit. Her hips roll on instinct, a need to chase the pressure he teased with his fingers, to grind against the weight of him.</p><p>Her hips roll back as his push forward, and his cock rubs against her, pressing against her clit, slicked by her wetness and Sofie’s hand flies back, out of her grip on the pillow her face is buried in, gripping onto the back of his head, fingers twisting into his hair as he makes a rolling groan behind her, his teeth scraping over the rising beat of her pulse.</p><p>She chokes out a hitching whimper, her thigh twitching down but still held open by where he tucked her leg behind his.</p><p>His other arm moves from where it was stretched out beneath her pillow, curving down until he can pull her into him more, his hand spreading out on her chest, cupping one of her breasts, trapping her against him in the length of his body behind hers.</p><p>She kinda hates how much she’s into how big he is compared to her.</p><p> His cock pushes against her, his hand pressing down harder on the thick of it, spreading her open more and Sofie makes a strangled sound as the thick of his head rubs against her clit, spears up over her mound and belly… every shift of his hips, flex of his stomach, the prick of his chest hair—</p><p>“<em>God</em>,” she whines, and the words are on her tongue, pushing at the back of her teeth, <em>fuck me—</em></p><p>But a knocking sound interrupts her.</p><p>Sofie freezes. Her hand still twisted in his hair, body still trembling, cunt still leaking against his cock.</p><p>Behind her, Henry stops.</p><p>The knock comes again.</p><p>Sofie sucks in a breath, her eyes opening, her whole body <em>stuck.</em> Neither one of them moves.</p><p>“Sof-bee?” her mother’s voice breaks into the moment, breaks into the heat growing between them, turns her body cold like a douse of cold water.</p><p>She’s pretty sure he turns into a solid line of tense muscle along her back.</p><p>Lurching into movement, Sofie pulls away from him, eyes wide, turning and kneeling on the bed and shoving him towards the edge.</p><p>“Yeah?” she yells, still shoving at him and trying not to stare at his body, the way his cock hangs thick and still slick from her, the way his stomach tenses, his muscles flex, the way his ass and shoulders and—</p><p>“You okay? I thought I heard something?”</p><p>His eyebrows shoot up, but he lets her push him, lets her shove him right off the side of the bed; Sofie stumbles off after him, shoving him towards the bathroom, her voice a harsh whisper.</p><p>“I’m so <em>sorry</em>, I— bathroom, just— you— <em>please</em>—”</p><p>It’s cold in the bathroom and her skin prickles, her whole body tensing more, but she reaches around him and smacks at the shower, turning it on as hot as it can go, letting it steam up quickly.</p><p>“I’m just about to shower!” she yells back over her shower. “One sex— <em>sec</em>!”</p><p><em>Jesus fuck,</em> she curses into the steaming air of the bathroom and then grabs at a towel from the carefully folded rack of them and winds it around her body.</p><p>“Just stay here— I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think—”</p><p>He says nothing, Sofie has no idea what’s on his face, doesn’t have time to make sense of it as her mother knocks again and she’s out of the bathroom, tugging the towel tighter and checking herself over quickly to make sure her hair and the towel hides any marks on her.</p><p>She unlocks the door, takes a breath and tugs the door open.</p><p>Her mother is still in her clothes from the night before and there’s not even a little bit of embarrassment or awkwardness as they both know where she’s been.</p><p>Sofie wishes she could be as relaxed about her night as her mother is. <em>Sex is just a physical need, </em>she’d told her,<em> like masturbation, or scratching an itch.</em></p><p>“How’s the stomach?” her mother asks, and Sofie frowns before she remembers her lie from the night before. <em>Stomach-ache.</em></p><p>“Better, I was just going to—”</p><p>“You sure, Sof-bee, you look a little a warm?” she says, her head tilting as she reaches a hand up, pressing it against Sofie’s forehead. “Do you feel warm?”</p><p><em>Jesus, </em>Sofie thinks, trying not to cringe away, because she swears all she can smell is <em>him,</em> all she can feel is him and she’s five seconds from freaking out because she’s pretty fucking sure she’s <em>dripping</em> down her own leg.</p><p>“I was just getting into the shower,” she lies, pulling away from her mother’s hands. “It’s probably just from the steam. I’m fine, really, I just think I drank too quickly.”</p><p>Her mother frowns at the reminder. “Yes, well, you didn’t need to slurp it quite like that did you? What did you think of Brently? Doing well for himself, isn’t he?”</p><p>Sofie shifts on her feet, her heart in her throat, the shower humming behind her. “Uh, yeah. I guess. Can we talk about this later, I’d really like to shower?”</p><p>Her mother’s eyes dart up, and for a second, Sofie panics, hoping she shut the bathroom door enough and can’t help but glance back, but there’s nothing there but steam slipping through the just-barely cracked-open bathroom door.</p><p>“How about lunch then? Say noon-ish? Just us this time, I promise,” she offers, lifting two fingers and crossing them and offering her a smile that makes her feel like the worst daughter in the world because there’s a thirty-four-year-old man in her bathroom and Sofie can’t stop thinking about his cock sliding over her cunt and mound and stomach again and again and—</p><p>Sofie nods, her hand on the door, already pushing it shut. “Great, yes. Sounds good.”</p><p>Her mother smiles, leaning away from the door frame. “Perfect, I’m off to shower as well. See you for lunch.”</p><p>Sofie nods too quickly, shuts the door too quickly… locks it and presses her forehead against it and steals a second, just a second to clench her eyes shut and push out a steadying breath.</p><p>Her insides start sinking lower and lower thinking about him waiting— about shoving him out of bed. About him <em>standing in there while she’s out here talking to her mother—</em></p><p>No thirty-four-year-old man wants to hide in the bathroom of his one-night— <em>okay, two-night</em> stand and be reminded that she still travels with her <em>mother.</em></p><p>Sofie winces, steels herself and tells herself to suck it up. To not be a baby. To accept that this is the end of it anyway, there’s no third time here.</p><p>She pushes away from the door, taking off back towards the bathroom, already dreading the inevitability of what waits for her.</p><p>Slipping into the bathroom, she finds Henry leaning against the sink, his thick arms folded over his chest, still just as naked as she left him.</p><p>She can’t help but look, shutting the door behind her with a click when she leans against it, stealing a glance over the length of his body from head to toe.</p><p>He’s still half-hard. It’s distracting.</p><p>She wonders if she could distract him with a blowjob.</p><p>She wonders if she could even get that thing in her <em>mouth</em>.</p><p>She wants to crack a joke. Wants to erase the moment, lighten the mood… she opens her mouth but it snaps shut when he steps forward, making her head tilt back and <em>thunk</em> lightly against the door as she tries to keep her eyes locked with his.</p><p>Her thoughts jumble inside her head, an urge to apologise, to explain, to tell him it’s no big deal, that she’s old <em>enough</em>, that—</p><p>His hand brushes her cheek and Sofie flinches, surprised by the first touch of his fingers before she eases and he cups her cheek. His eyes are shadowed in the light spilling overhead from a modern light above the sink, Sofie has no idea what’s on his face. No idea of what to think, can’t think about anything but for his eyes on hers and his thumb brushing just beneath her bottom lip.</p><p>Her head pushes against the door behind her as she tilts it a little higher, his thumb slips over her bottom lip, dips just slightly inside of it.</p><p>“Sof-Bee?” he asks, his voice low, as warm as the air rising in the gentle hum of the shower spray.</p><p>She feels her cheeks warm at her nickname, at him hearing it and then <em>using</em> it.</p><p>“I couldn’t say my name when I was little,” she says, too quietly as his thumb slips along the curve of her lip, up over the top…his eyes sinking down to follow the path of his thumb. “It stuck.”</p><p>And then he’s leaning down and Sofie sucks in a little breath, right before their lips touch and he steals all of it from her lungs anyway.</p><p>His hand falls away from her face and his arms wrap around her middle, thick and warm and pulling her up and into him. Sofie clings onto him like a boneless limpet, wrapping her arms around his neck, tilting her head to let him kiss her deeper, letting him pull the towel out from between the drape of her body against his. Feels his cock, iron-hot and hard against her stomach. Feels his hands slide down her sides, push wide-fingered over her ass before he grips onto it and tugs her up, urging her legs to wrap around his middle as he steps into the shower.</p><p>The water hits her back, the steam gets thicker, Sofie clings onto him, losing herself in the kiss, feeling one of his hands sliding up her back, fingers bumping along her spine… back down again to grope at her ass and pull her closer.</p><p>When he presses her into the cold, slippery tile of the shower wall, it shocks a little breath out of her. Henry presses biting kisses down her neck, his body thick and wet and warm, stuck to hers in some places, slippery in others; his hands slick, sliding along her thighs as Sofie’s cunt rubs against the thick of his stomach.</p><p>It’s different bare, hotter, slipperier… her head tilts back, her eyes closing, losing herself to his mouth on her skin, to his hands on her, to his voice, rolling low in his chest, pressing into her the way his body is.</p><p>“Sof-bee,” he hums, with his teeth scraping her neck and his hand, sliding up her side, over her ribs, palming her breast—</p><p>The sound of her nickname from his mouth does something inside of her, half caught on the fucked-up-ness of the moment, of her mother being next door after almost catching Sofie in bed with a man too old for her; of the name itself, only ever really used by her mother, rumbling out of him and into her.</p><p>It’s sort of perverse, fucked-up hot.</p><p>And it catches in her, like the way he says her name, like a stitch in her side, that there’s something not right in the moment, that she doesn’t want this to be a One Time—</p><p>Even though it feels like a Last Time.</p><p>Something different in the way he touches her, heavier, hotter, or maybe it’s just the steam, she tries to tell herself, as his mouth finds hers again and she’s making a little noise into it, pressing her chest against the hardness of his, thrilling in the scratch of his chest hair against her nipples.</p><p>Henry tilts his head, kissing her deeper, but no less slow and heavy like the foggy air around them.</p><p>His hand slides down her side, over the curve of her hip and thigh, and when their mouths slip apart again, for air, for sanity, Henry kisses down her neck, pushing her up the tile until he can bite at her nipple, soothe the sting of it with his tongue, letting her grip onto his hair, push her fingers through it; getting lost again in the moment.</p><p>When he brings her back down, kissing back up her chest, his arm hooks under her knee, his palm squeaking against the tile as he braces himself, as Sofie presses her hand against his chest, blinking shower spray out of her eyes.</p><p>He looks down between them, at the way she’s held open, held up, pressed against the wall and she can’t even pretend it isn’t doing things to her, how easily he can lift her and hold her and move her where he wants—</p><p>She can’t pretend anything, because it’s just the hum of the shower, the way the water rolls over his shoulders, the way the world blurs into his skin and hers, and his mouth and hers when he leans forward to kiss her again.</p><p>No real thoughts in her head but for his tongue and his body and the way he presses her against the wall.</p><p>It feels too real and yet… unreal. A dream. A foggy moment between wake and sleep and when she brushes her hand down his chest, lets her fingers trail along his wet skin and the brush of his chest hair, down his stomach, over the bump of his abs as his stomach tightens, into the trail of hair that leads lower, to the thick of his cock—</p><p>His hand squeaks on the wall again when she grips his cock, too much for one hand. <em>Too much for one man</em>, she thinks, as she closes her hand around it as much as she can. It’s heavy and throbbing, veiny and too hot… so hot in her palm as she drags it up, grips it tighter and then rubs that thick, too hot head against her cunt.</p><p>His mouth breaks away, his jaw tensing, breath shifting out of his chest the way hers catches inside of her chest. Their lips brush as they breathe; their eyes meet, little shifts of his pupils like he’s looking for something inside of her.</p><p>She rolls her hips, as much as she can with her leg hooked over his arm and the other wrapped around his side. His cock slides over her, just like this morning, just like the night before… and Sofie thinks she’ll be okay with just this again, because it’s good, it's <em>good</em> feeling the thickness of him, the heat and iron-hard weight of his cock, knowing she did that, that she’s doing that, that for whatever reason, for whatever happens—</p><p>This is hers.</p><p>Even if it’s just for right now.</p><p>But Henry lets his hand slide, just a little lower on the shower tiles and it changes the angle, lets her slip a little lower, folds her a little more in half and—</p><p>When their eyes meet this time, and his lips brush hers, Sofie grips his cock and gives it a slow stroke down… and this time when she pushes it over herself, Henry’s hips roll forward too and his head catches against her entrance, right against where she wants him most. Where she’s still aching from the night before, where they <em>both</em>, she thinks, want him to be.</p><p>His eyes flick over hers again, Sofie pants against his mouth, feeling the throb of his cock, the ache in her cunt and can think only, <em>please—</em></p><p>And then he does, his cock pushes in and Sofie’s whole body tenses, her toes curling, leg trembling over his arm; eyes clenching because he’s thick and there are no fingers to ease his way, no stretch to work her open before his cock starts to stretch her open.</p><p>Henry makes a noise, a caught, choked sound, and he kisses the side of her mouth, her cheek, the tense of her jaw—</p><p><em>Sorry, sorry,</em> he mumbles into her skin, trying to pull back, but Sofie grips his shoulder with her other hand, tightens her grip on his cock and shakes her head.</p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p>It’s all a dream anyway, right?</p><p>A stolen moment out of reality?</p><p>Sofie decides she wants to feel it, <em>feel him</em>, for as long as she can.</p><p>She lines his cock up again, from where it slipped out and rests against the spread of her cunt, pressing that thick head against herself, breathing hard the way he is, his breath puffing against her ear.</p><p>“Sofie,” he warns, but it’s more like a groan.</p><p>She inches her hips up, or he inches his forward, she isn’t sure, both maybe, only knows that his cock sinks in again, that she bites her cheek, turning her head into his neck, wrapping her arm tighter around his neck, feeling the thick flex of his muscles, the tensing of them, the squeak of his hand on the tile; she grips his cock and urges him deeper, no matter the ache.</p><p>It’s slow and too hot and it hurts in a way that’s terrible and wonderful and awful and <em>perfect</em> all at once. The stretch of him, the push of him inching deeper and deeper inside of her, a tremble in his bicep that does something to her insides, his breath, hot and harsh in her ear.</p><p>She’s strokes the thick of him, a thrill in her that’s half anxiousness for all that’s still needs to <em>fit, </em>but he kisses her jaw, her pulse, her shoulder, says her name into her skin… and Sofie lets him push deeper, urges him deeper, pushing her hand up his stomach, enjoying the slow, tensing roll of his lower body, the strength in him, the easy way he can do this—</p><p>Can lift her and move her and fuck her like <em>this.</em></p><p>The air gets hotter, gets thicker, and time melts away into the slow-rolling inches he eases in and out of her, making her body burn up brighter, caught on the edge of a sobbing need for him to move faster for him to stay slow, to stretch time out more and more until it’s nothing real at all.</p><p>But slowly, surely, his hips press against hers, slowly, surely, he fills her up.</p><p><em>It’s too hot, </em>she thinks, the air too thick, <em>he’s too thick</em>, too big around her and against her and inside of her. Can feel him throbbing inside of her, feel her muscles clenching around him, feels his lips sliding over her shoulder, his voice a rough rolling thing that’s hazy and distant like the sound of the shower humming around them and against their skin.</p><p><em>Sofie, </em>he groans into her neck. <em>Sof-bee, </em>he hums with his mouth to her jaw. <em>Baby,</em> with his lips over hers.</p><p>And the kiss is as slow and sure and syrupy smooth as the first few little inching rolls of his hips. Sofie’s eyes are still shut and he doesn’t tell her to open them, this time. Lets her cry out into the muggy shower air and break the kiss as he starts to move. Lets her drop her head to his shoulder, tuck into his neck, breathing hard and biting her lip, feeling like there’s nothing in the world but him and his cock and the way it fits inside of her. Nothing to focus on but the stretch and the ache; the awful, amazing, terrible ache of it as he moves.</p><p>Time stretches and pulls and melts like sugar on her tongue; Henry’s breathing gets heavier, his hand gets tighter on her ass, holding her up; his arm trembles, just a little beneath the curve of her knee from the effort of holding back. But he pulls back and sinks inside of her, his pace steady and slow and so sure on every stroke that Sofie can feel him filling her and stopping just short of bottoming out.</p><p>And she can feel herself getting wetter, can feel that ache of the stretch, the too-full feeling easing as he sinks inside of her again and again and again.</p><p>But she <em>wants</em> to feel him, she thinks, just like the other day when all she could feel was him, wants to bring him home with her in some small way. (Even if it’s just a bruise, a bite-mark, an ache inside of her body.)</p><p>She bites the meat of his shoulder, feels his hips stutter, his cock throb as Sofie slips her mouth over his jaw, along his stubbled cheek, presses her lips to his—</p><p>“Please,” she whines, but it’s barely more than a choked-out exhale, blinking at him through the haze of steam, the spray of the shower, the haze of <em>him. </em>“C’mon.”</p><p>Henry kisses her, open-mouthed and hungry; a noise in his throat that’s like gravel, stone scraping, and somehow, he hikes her leg higher, his hand squeaking on the tile as he braces it again on the tile, folding her more in two, holding her more open—</p><p>And he presses her into the wall, presses his upper body flat against hers, his cock rooting inside of her, pressed thick and long and so deep inside of her it <em>hurts.</em></p><p>Sofie’s mouth breaks away from his with a cry. And she thinks he growls something into her cheek, but all there is, is his him moving inside of her, slow-grinding rolls of his hips that turn into him curving his other hand up higher on her ass, urging the roll of her hips into his every time he pushes into her, building a rhythm that leaves her a hitching mess, leaves her scrabbling at his shoulders, biting her cheek to hold in the pitch of the noises she wants to make, breathing in hot air and his wet skin beneath her mouth.</p><p><em>Too much,</em> she thinks, <em>too much—</em></p><p>“<em>G-od</em>,” she whines, her whole body sparking like an electric current that’s about to <em>burst</em>—</p><p>Her leg trembles over his arm, her toes curled and flexing as her cunt clenches around him, muscles tightening as his cock pushes inside of her again and again—shoving her over that sparking edge—</p><p>And she’s clamping down on his cock; her nails scraping into his skin, sobbing into the thick of his shoulder, cunt gripping around him as he curses and loses his rhythm, his hips slamming against her, and it’s too much, too deep, but she’s lost to the hum of her pleasure, leaking out around him—</p><p>“<em>Fuck—</em>” he grunts, shoving up into her, her back sliding a little up the wall, his hips grinding, his hand bruising on her ass, holding her against him as his cock pulses and fills her, and she swears somehow, it feels <em>bigger</em> on every throb.</p><p>Sofie whimpers, her whole body <em>lit up. </em></p><p>It’s weird, too hot, a sticky sort of slickness inside of her, but he doesn’t pull out and Sofie’s too boneless to move, too focused on the feeling of each pulse, each slowing throb as his cock slowly softens inside of her.</p><p>Henry’s heartbeat slows against hers, his hand stroking lazily up and down her thigh, up her side, just around the curve of her shoulder where his head is tucked in her neck, his breathing still a little too quick.</p><p><em>It’s too much,</em> she thinks, <em>he’s too much.</em> The way he touches her is… too real even for the pretend fantasy she was trying to make herself believe this was.</p><p><em>You’re so stupid,</em> she tells herself, and clenches her eyes shut as he presses his lips to her pulse. “Alright?” he asks, his voice rough and low.</p><p>Sofie nods, even though she isn’t sure she is. Wants to ask him if this is normal or if this means something— if he touches other girls this way every time he fucks them. If he’s fucked a lot of girls like this, bare against a shower wall.</p><p><em>She doesn’t want to be that girl,</em> she thinks, clinging onto something that isn’t really hers to being with. And if she knows anything, it’s that this wasn’t supposed to be anything more than one night, everything after that first hook-up is just… convenience. Isn’t it?</p><p><em>Probably</em>, she thinks and tells herself she can do this, can detach herself from the moment the way her mother does. Sex is an itch, it’s been scratched. There’s no shame in it. No reason to get…attached.</p><p>But every time she thinks to say something, to push him away, to get some distance so she can piece her brain back together… She can’t make her mouth work, can’t make her body move; stays boneless, slumped and clinging onto him, watching the water slide down the glass of the shower door, her body still thrumming.</p><p>She doesn’t want to let go.</p><p>His hand strokes up her side, over her arm, his breathing evening out. He shifts a little against her, and she swears his cock gets a little thicker inside of her, and she can’t stop the noise from slipping out of her, over-sensitive, strung out from him fucking her.</p><p>“Sorry,” he mumbles into her shoulder. “You keep…clenching.”</p><p>Oh, she thinks, because she isn’t sure she even realised, but she feels herself doing it now, the aftershocks of her orgasm still rolling through her; she tightens around him again, and he grunts, a puff of a noise against her shoulder.</p><p>When he shifts, and his cock slips out, Sofie winces, feeling sore and weirdly, somehow, even more naked than before; struggling to get her body to work as he lowers his arm holding her leg up, balancing her weight against him and his other hand beneath her ass. It’s harder than it should be, getting her body to move, to get herself standing on still wobbly legs, but Henry holds her through it, letting her press her forehead into his chest, his hands sliding over her back…</p><p>“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says and Sofie nods, sinking her teeth into her cheek as her heart plummets.</p><p><em>It’s true,</em> she tells herself, <em>you know it is, don’t be stupid. He’s thirty-four and—and </em>him<em> and you’re still tagging along behind your mother because you don’t have any idea what to do with your life.</em></p><p>Why would he even <em>want</em> to be here?</p><p>His chest shifts, slick-skinned and broad, and Sofie almost thinks she could cry because it isn’t <em>fair—</em></p><p>Feels the tremble of an embarrassing sort of ache at the back of her throat. She hates it suddenly, that she met him at all. That it would have been better to have never have known him as anything other than a man she saw in the gym, or less than that, just another stupid-hot actor on a movie screen.</p><p>Sofie shrugs, biting her cheek and telling herself to grow up, <em>you made the choice,</em> she thinks,<em> you wanted this. Him. </em></p><p>
  <em>Suck it up, you knew what this was. How many times have you told yourself what this was? You knew. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You know.</em>
</p><p>“I wanted to,” she mumbles, telling herself it’s time to end it for real this time.</p><p>But she can’t move.</p><p>It goes quiet again, just his chest beneath her forehead, the hum and patter of the shower around them, the steam lying thick in the air.</p><p>Henry’s hands stroke over her back, sliding down her spine, up along her sides, her shoulders… he cups her head, tilting it back.</p><p>When their eyes meet, he doesn’t say anything, water drips from around his shoulders, rivulets along his skin. Sofie blinks at him, hoping there’s nothing too telling on her face.</p><p>“I’m only standing here because I don’t trust my legs yet,” she says, forcing a smile, trying to muck her way out of the feelings twisting inside her stomach. “A-plus for effort, Cavill.”</p><p>His lips twitch. “Thank you, Miller.”</p><p>His hands slide through her hair, brushing it off her face. Sofie lets her forehead bump against his chest as his hands slide along the length of her hair over her shoulders, gathering the soaked, stringy pieces stuck to her skin into a line down her back.</p><p>“Got a lot of hair,” he says, in that low way that Sofie thinks of as his post-fuck voice. It’s a nice voice.</p><p>“Thank you. It’s my best feature.”</p><p>He huffs a laugh, his hand sneaking down to tap one of her ass cheeks. “I’m putting my vote in for this.”</p><p>Sofie laughs into his chest, feeling lighter than she did a minute ago. Maybe they can be friends. Friend-adjacent. Horizontal-acquaintances who can be friend-<em>like</em>.</p><p>Or maybe it’s the other way around. Friends who have been horizontal-acquaintances.</p><p><em>Whatever</em>, she thinks, <em>don’t be stupid.</em></p><p>It goes quiet, Henry brushes his hands through her hair again, pulling in a deeper breath. Sofie braces herself, because she knows, somehow, what’s coming.</p><p>“I’m flying out today… in a few hours, really.”</p><p>Sofie nods against his chest. “Okay.”</p><p>He hesitates.</p><p>Sofie decides to spare them both the awkward moment, pulling in a breath and stepping away from him. “You should get going, then… I should go make sure my mom doesn’t come looking for me, anyway… which, you know,” she winces, pulling a face. “Sorry about that.”</p><p>He shrugs, Sofie tries not to stare at him when he tilts his head back, getting his hair wetter before scrubbing his hands through it and chasing the water off his face. “Not your fault.”</p><p><em>Sort of is,</em> she thinks, but turns away instead, sliding the glass open enough to slip out, grabbing the towel from earlier, and wrapping herself up in it. Feeling cold and naked and more than a little bit too young watching what is, she knows, an undoubtedly grown-up man in the shower.</p><p>When he steps out after her, the hum of the shower shutting off leaves them in the too quiet, steamy bathroom and Sofie shivers, her hair dripping in little <em>plats</em> on the floor.</p><p>She watches him wrap a towel around his waist, can still see the outline of his cock—</p><p><em>Ugh,</em> she thinks, <em>don’t be so desperate.</em> But it’s hard not to be, not when she can feel him, the pressure of where his hips knocked into her, the stretch of her thighs… the ache of being so full and then… empty.</p><p>And she’s pretty sure she can feel his cum, a weirdly thick slippery-ness between her thighs.</p><p>Sofie scrunches her nose as she feels him starting to leak out.</p><p>“Alright?” he asks, frowning down at her.</p><p><em>Yup,</em> she says, but can’t stop herself from shifting, pressing her thighs tighter together. Wondering if she’s going to have to Google <em>‘how to stop leaking cum’</em> before her lunch with her mother.</p><p><em>Jesus</em>, she thinks, caught suddenly, on how… unbelievable <em>weird</em> this trip has turned out. The days since meeting him blur together behind her eyes, meld into the bass-beat of the club, her in his bed, him above her, him inside of her, him across the restaurant—</p><p>Sofie feels out of her body, floating up and watching herself slip out of the bathroom, shivering and dripping in the cooler hotel-room air; watches herself watch Henry pull on his clothes. Watches the damp spots, where his skin is still wet and warm from the shower, seep through his shirt.</p><p>He tightens his belt, the metal clinks in the silence. Sofie blinks, shivers, feels him leak out of her a little more.</p><p>He scrubs a towel through his hair, pushing his hands through it to tame the damp mess. Sofie blinks, shivers—</p><p>He pushes his feet into his shoes, grabbing his phone and keycard from where they fell sometime in the night after he stripped off his pants.</p><p>Sofie shivers, blinks, and waits for him to leave.</p><p>And then he does. His hand on her chin, his eyes moving over her face, a Last Kiss, pressed softly to her lips with a warm puff of his breath against her mouth.</p><p>“I’ll see you around, Sof-bee,” he says with his eyes still searching her face, his thumb on her chin.</p><p>Sofie nods. “See you around, Cavill.”</p><p>His mouth curls up into a crooked smile.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>* *</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                New York is… <em>empty</em>.</p><p> </p><p>But that’s not true. New York is as loud and smelly and busy as it always is. The city flows around her and Sofie fills her last day by walking through the streets, her phone in her hand, snapping photos of crowded streets and brick-sided buildings next to glass and steel and all the things that give New York its weird sort of appeal. And in between eating street-vendor hot dogs and people-watching, Sofie texts her friends like it's just another normal day in another normal trip.</p><p>And it is, <em>normal</em>, that is. The people move around her. The cars honk. The street lights flick from green to yellow to red. Languages flow like a scanning radio station, French, English, Chinese, Indian, Spanish.</p><p>She goes back to the hotel. Runs on the treadmill in the small hotel gym. Showers and slips into the cool, empty hotel bed.</p><p> </p><p>It’s <em>normal</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p>                               </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                He’s woken up a lot of places in his lifetime.</p><p>And even more in just the last few years of his career.</p><p>Hotel after hotel, trailer to trailer, one house to another. Sometimes less than that, the cramped back seat of a car or the always-too-small seats of an aeroplane.</p><p>He’s gotten rather skilled at waking up and adjusting to where he is even before his eyes are open; even when he isn’t alone. Even if it’s one of those nights that spill into mornings where he’s taken someone to bed with him (or to whatever place was near enough to be bed-<em>like.</em>) And he isn’t proud to say he often leaves first but he’s not ashamed of it either. It’s a by-product of the job. A little addendum written into the contract of being famous; that people will always want more from you than you can ever give to them.</p><p>And that doesn’t change, even when it’s just a quick fuck.</p><p>But then there’s this girl:</p><p>Who stands at the end of his hotel bed, messy-haired and swollen-lipped from the night before, clutching her heels to her chest and looking at him like she’s been caught sneaking <em>into</em> his room instead of <em>out of it.</em></p><p>Who <em>thanks</em> him for her orgasms.</p><p> And then <em>runs.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And he thinks: <em>Huh</em>, <em>that’s new.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And he isn’t sure if it’s just that his ego is just <em>a little</em> bit sore at how quickly she left, or if he’s just caught up in the fact he didn’t get to fuck her again… or if maybe, it’s that she’s made him laugh, right up until the last second (because who <em>thanks</em> someone for <em>orgasms?</em>) that makes him think about her more than he should. But… it’s there all the same. Or rather <em>she</em> is.</p><p>And he isn’t sure what to <em>do</em> with that.</p><p>Because he knows, really, that there can’t be anything more than this between them. This hotel room, this moment. This… stolen bit of time out of his everyday life.</p><p>She’s… too young. <em>Thirteen years</em> too young for him. (And he can say it all he wants, that age shouldn’t matter, but in the public eye… everything has a different sort of weight to it. A picture is a statement, every word is a fact, every moment is immortalized online. And he thought he’d learnt that lesson already.)</p><p>And in reality, it <em>does.</em> Age matters in all the little ways that seem to pile up as he gets older; as clubs and bars seem less important than sleep and working out. As alcohol hits harder. As priorities change and values change and <em>wants</em> change.</p><p>He’s learnt that lesson too, he thinks. Which is why, when the too-young-for-him girl had all but flown out of his room, he’d thought: <em>Alright, that’s that then. </em></p><p>But—</p><p>But instead, he found himself thinking about her. All day.</p><p>
  <em>All fucking day.</em>
</p><p>From the moment he had climbed into the shower and set a hand to his cock to get rid of that lingering arousal, she slipped into his head like she never even left his bed. With those hitching little noises and the tremble in her thighs and those cute little tits that quivered every time he fucked into her.</p><p>And it’s normal, he tells himself, to think about the last girl he’s been with, isn’t it? Normal to recreate the moment in his mind while he’s still… caught up in that stress-easing, relaxed time post-fuck.</p><p>It’s <em>normal</em>.</p><p>Except—</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He puts himself right back into the same situation, all over again. (Because he saw her in the restaurant and knew, really, he’d been lying to himself when he thought he could walk away so easily.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>But she <em>is</em> too young for him, and it’s driven home like a punch to the gut when her fucking <em>mother</em> knocks on the hotel room door. Lands like a hammer-blow, while he’s standing in the bathroom, still hard, his cock still slick from sliding against her.</p><p>And he hates himself for it, just a little bit, for not being able to walk away when she slips into the bathroom after her mother leaves. And he’s got all the things to say in his head, that he should leave, that he's got things to do, places to be, that he’s too old for her, that she should enjoy the rest of her trip with her mother—</p><p>But she’s… flushed up and wrapped in a towel and in that moment, despite what the sane, logical, <em>right</em> side of his mind is telling him… all he wants to do is touch her again.</p><p>He can’t <em>not.</em></p><p> </p><p>So he does.</p><p>Says <em>fuck it </em>one more time in the span of three days and—</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Wishes he could go back in time and tell himself to leave her alone because he <em>swears</em> he can still smell her on him like she’s stuck in his nose or on his skin. He can't <em>stop</em> thinking about leaving her this morning. About her in the shower. About every noise, every hitch, every tremble.</p><p>About fucking her the way he did.</p><p>(Apparently, there are a lot of lessons he isn't so sure he's actually learnt.)</p><p>The airport is crowded. He’s sure he saw more than one flashing camera go off. At least a few more cellphones pointed his way, a whispered '<em>ohmygod, is that— did you see— I swear that’s—'</em></p><p>He’s used to it. It’s easy enough to tug at the rim of his ballcap, to turn his gaze to the floor or his phone and pretend it’s nothing.</p><p>He opens the message screen, his thumb hovering over <em>Sofie.</em></p><p>
  <em>''Should we— autograph—'</em>
</p><p>He thinks about her looking nervous and… intimidated by the crowd of cameras and people outside of the hotel entrance, about her ducking her head in his ballcap as she walked by them.</p><p>He locks his phone and the screen goes dark.</p><p>(Signs a flight-ticket, the back page of a Passport, a t-shirt with a half-dry Sharpie. Smiles for every picture and thanks them when they say: <em>we loved you in Superman— We hope you get to do another Man From Uncle— You were so great in—</em>)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He can’t sleep, his mind gnaws over the last few days like a dog on a bone. He closes his eyes and she’s there, standing in her hotel room, skinny and pretty and too young, dripping on the hotel room floor.</p><p>(Dripping him, too. He’d known, had to force himself to leave, an ultimatum of <em>now or never</em>. <em>Don’t touch her again or you’ll never leave. Don’t push your hand up the towel, don’t chase the leak of yourself along her thighs that’s bound to be there. Don’t unwrap her and see her, all spread out and leaking beneath you.)</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He sees it all in his head, anyway.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He’s halfway over the Atlantic and he’s typed out four messages to her on his phone even though he knows he can’t send them. Wants to apologise, to tell her it’s not her, it’s him. That he’s too busy. That he’d never see her. That he’d end up hurting her and he really, honestly, <em>doesn’t</em> <em>want to do that.</em></p><p>That there’s a reality they could ignore when it was all happening behind a hotel room door.</p><p>He’s turning thirty-five in less than a month.</p><p>He locks his phone; drops his head back against the too-hard headrest of the plane seat, closing his eyes and pushing out a long, heavy breath.</p><p><em>It’s done,</em> he thinks, <em>leave her alone.</em></p><p>
  
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I just want to talk briefly about Henry's POV. I try to be realistic in writing men's POV's in the sense that... sometimes they can be a bit more... crude? Abrupt in how things are to them. Like... I do believe that Henry is a decent guy, but he's still a very handsome dude who has probably been around a few times and like, that's totally cool, no shame believe me.  There's just (from what I've seen in browsing fics with him) a bit of a habit for him to be portrayed as like this perfectly charming, perfectly flawless, sweep a girl off her feet, doesn't even burp romantic. And like, I dunno. Dude jokes about sex, he plays rugby and drinks in pubs with other dudes. So i'm leaning more to him being less... perfect-romance-hero and more... real. </p><p>Hopefully that makes sense.</p><p>I'd appreciate and enjoy any thoughts on this (very brief) foray into Henry's POV. </p><p>And once again, can't thank you all enough for your comments and enthusiasm in this story. You're all the best.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm sorry this isn't the most exciting chapter, but it was necessary to show some time apart before we bring them back together. But I hope you like it anyway, and I hope the way it's set up makes sense. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Henry hesitates, staring at the blinking cursor in the search bar.</p><p> </p><p>Types in her name, watches the cursor blink—</p><p> </p><p>And then backspaces and makes himself put his phone down.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>* *</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                LA is bright. It always surprises him how different it feels from anywhere else in the world. The centre of the film industry is as gold as the statues they give out. (Gold-plated, gilded, decorated to look different than it really is.)</p><p>And LA is <em>gilded</em>. It’s sand and salty-air lost beneath the perfume and the Botox and the camera-flash-clicks of celebrity. It’s palm trees and seascapes lost beneath marble and metal and make-up.</p><p>Not that he’s judging.</p><p>It’s easy to forget reality when your knee deep in the green-screen of Hollywood.</p><p>(And if he were being honest, LA lost its appeal sometime during his run as Superman. Hollywood is every actor’s childhood dream, and he wonders if it ever lived up to anyone’s expectations, or, like him, were they all blinded by the same gold-plated image, before finding the tin underneath?)</p><p>Not that it matters either way, he thinks, as heads out of his management’s office, another check-in on his plans for the next few months complete. CinemaCon is coming up in two weeks, and he gets the details and information on the hotel he’ll be staying at, which co-stars will be there and what interviews or <em>interviewers</em> he should pay more attention to. Or those he should be more wary of. <em>(Watch the girlfriend talk with that one, likes the gossip. No Superman talk with this one, he’s been against the remakes since Smallville.)</em></p><p>It’s enough to do his head in.</p><p>But better safe than sorry, he thinks. Better to know when to bite your tongue or politely, <em>creatively</em> sidestep a question than give any more fodder to the press than they can already create well enough on their own.</p><p>He steps out of his management’s building with a loose date for another LA visit after CinemaCon, where more talks with Netflix about the Witcher <em>should</em> take place, (and he hopes, that the next one will make a difference and all his readings and notes and ideas will be worthwhile and not all… wasted effort. Or wasted hope to get the role.)</p><p>Sliding his sunglasses onto his face, he steps out into the bright LA sunshine, adjusting to the glare of the sunlight outside as the warmth of the day sinks down over him like a heat-lamp, feeling even hotter in his dark trousers and button-up as he makes his way to his hotel.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “You’re on the front page.”</p><p>Henry looks up at the sound of his brother’s voice. Finding him lounging, his feet up on the low table in the living area of the hotel suite.</p><p>“Of what?” he asks, dropping his key card and his sunglasses onto the table just inside the room.</p><p>“Some rag,” he says, flipping a page in the magazine. “<em>Superman Flies Through New York.</em>”</p><p>With a scoff, he snatches the pages from his brother, scanning the front page, the images of him outside of his hotel—</p><p>His heart jumps, just for a second, and he scans the images looking for a girl in a red cap, but it’s just him, sweaty and dishevelled, signing autographs and taking photos.</p><p>“Not exactly exciting, is it?” he says, but he’s still scanning the page like there’ll be something new to see if he looks close enough. Although, he isn’t sure why it matters, what good would a photo do? What use would a photo have?</p><p><em>None</em>, he thinks, that’s the answer. Photos are rarely <em>good</em> things. They just <em>are.</em></p><p>“You never have been, really,” his brother drawls, grabbing the paper back from him and clearing his throat loudly as he shakes the paper out. “Shall I read it to you, <em>Superman</em>?”</p><p>“I think I’ll just imagine it, actually, but thank you for the offer,” he says, ignoring the sound of his brother’s voice following him into the next room as he strips off his shirt, ignoring the weight of his phone in his pocket (where there’s another drafted message, sitting unsent in the conversation screen of that same girl <em>not</em> photographed beside him in a red cap.)</p><p>It’s been a week; he still can’t make himself hit send.</p><p>Or delete.</p><p>
  <em>‘Our erstwhile Superman, looking just as Man of Steel as he did in last year’s Justice League was seen—'</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sofie types his name into the search bar, but doesn’t get much farther than <em>Henr</em>— before his Instagram account pops up in the suggestions. She stares at the little round icon, her thumb hesitating over her screen while she chews her cheek.</p><p>With a sigh, she locks her phone and sets it on the counter, turning it face down before leaning forward and resting her forehead against the wood counter, pulling in a long breath filled with the old-cedar wood smell beneath her nose.</p><p>“Okay, I know it’s a slow day, but it isn’t <em>that </em>bad.”</p><p>Sofie huffs against the counter, hearing Liam over her shoulder; she keeps her eyes closed and her forehead against the counter for another minute, before pushing back up and brushing her hair out of her face as she turns to look at him.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Liam’s eyes narrow, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter beside her. “You’ve been weird since you got back from New York, what’s up, Sof?”</p><p>Sofie shrugs, reaching for a rag on the counter and wiping over where she was just leaning and breathing on the wood, avoiding Liam’s questioning eyes.</p><p>“Just a blah day.”</p><p><em>Uh-huh,</em> he drawls, and Sofie can feel his eyes on her as she wipes the counter more than it needs to be wiped. “Did you and your mom fight or something?”</p><p>Sofie shrugs. “No. Not really… Not any more than normal, anyway.”</p><p>His mouth opens again, but Sofie’s saved from further prodding by the jingle of the bell above the front door and the chatter of three girls coming into the store.</p><p>Second Chapter isn’t a busy place, a second-hand bookstore/take-a-book-leave-a-book, that slowly became a cafe in competition with all the Starbucks and coffee shops in the city around them. Thankfully, during the school year it became a student hangout; filling with students mooching wi-fi and feeding caffeine addictions while studying or just looking for a quiet place to hang out.</p><p>Which definitely made the shifts go by a lot faster.</p><p>It’s not a bad place to work, Sofie thinks, give or take dealing with stressed-out students during exams. And probably beats working at Starbucks or like, McDonald's.</p><p>The girls come up to the counter, staring at the menu like Sofie hasn’t served them regularly since the semester started last year and they won’t get exactly what they almost always get.</p><p>
  <em>Vanilla latte, Chai latte, Cold Brew with Hazelnut.</em>
</p><p>And depending on the night before, some sort of carb.</p><p>She glances at Liam, his lips quirking, moving away from the counter to get started as Sofie steps up to the register.</p><p>“Hey, can we get, like… a Vanilla latte…and a Chai latte…and a Cold Brew with Hazelnut.”</p><p>“Oh, and two apple crumble muffins and one uhm, blueberry?” the other girl adds, looking over Sofie’s shoulder at Liam.</p><p>“Sure,” Sofie nods, punching in the order and trying not to smile while Liam snorts quietly, already starting in on the first drink.</p><p>“It’ll just be a few minutes,” she says with a smile, handing their change back to them, watching as one who ordered the muffins glances at Liam again, not at all as subtle as she probably thinks she is. Or more like, she isn’t trying to be subtle at all, really. Sofie bites her cheek, holding in a smile.  “<em>Liam</em> will bring it to your table as soon as it’s ready.”</p><p>The girl glances at Sofie and smiles, her cheeks pinking as she glances at Liam again and nods, dropping a bill into the tip jar on the counter.</p><p>“<em>Thanks</em>,” he drawls when Sofie steps up beside him at the back counter, after the girls have moved back to their table, settling in with the scrape of wood chairs over the old wood floors. He glances over Sofie’s head, towards where the girls are seated by the windows, whispering and giggling.</p><p>“I’m pimping you out for tips,” Sofie says, crouching down to grab the cold coffee carafe in the fridge beneath the counter. “You should be flattered.”</p><p>“I feel <em>dirty</em>,” he says as he finishes up the first latte. “<em>Used</em>. Like a piece of <em>meat</em>.”</p><p>Sofie laughs, stretching up on her toes for the hazelnut syrup, huffing a laugh when Liam reaches over her head to grab it for her instead, plonking it down beside the carafe.</p><p>“Like you don’t like it,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’ve seen your wall, how many numbers you got now?”</p><p>He grins, toothy and charming, looking like a page taken out of an Abercrombie ad, with the way he rolls the sleeves of his white t-shirt over the lean muscle in his arms and the carefully-done I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-like-this styling of his hair. “Only because it doesn’t work on you, Sof.”</p><p>Sofie rolls her eyes again, pouring the coffee into a glass before adding in the hazelnut flavouring. “Save that for the customers, Lee.”</p><p>Leaving Liam to finish the last drink, Sofie grabs three muffins out of the glass display case, setting them on three small plates on a tray and eyeing the book cart by the other end of the counter, laden with books that need to go back onto the stacks that make up the back half and upper floor of the store.</p><p>“I’m going to put the cart away, you good here?”</p><p>He nods, glancing at Sofie as she sets the tray beside him, waiting on the last latte.</p><p>“Let me know if you get any ones shoved into your g-string,” she teases, grinning at him as she backs away. Liam looks at her with an unimpressed face, but his mouth tightens and twitches, trying not to smile.</p><p>“I’m never going to live that costume down, am I?”</p><p>“Don’t know what you mean, Magic Mike,” she says with a grin, turning away before he can say anything else and heading towards the cart of books.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sliding a worn copy of The Outsiders into its place on the bookshelf labelled <em>H to K, </em>Sofie steals a glance around before leaning against the shelf and pulling her phone out of her pocket.</p><p>Instagram is still open, the little round circle with <em>henrycavill</em> with its little blue checkmark staring back at her.</p><p>She bites her lip, her thumb hovering—</p><p>And then locks the screen and tucks her phone back into the back pocket of her jeans, heading back downstairs.</p><p>It’s been a week, if he wanted to text her— <em>he could have,</em> she thinks, <em>he would have.</em></p><p>
  <em>If he wanted to.</em>
</p><p>               </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>               </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                He pushes a hand through his still-wet hair, feeling the slow drip of it still sliding along the back of his neck as he tugs on a soft t-shirt.</p><p>Kal’s already lounging on the foot of his bed, perfecly-content after a long walk and an evening spent gnawing on a thick bone-treat that was Henry’s rather weak apology for being gone so long. But what else can you get a dog other than a long walk, a good scratch and a bone or two?</p><p>His suitcase sits at the foot of the bed and he debates leaving it for tomorrow just because he <em>can</em>, because after a ten+ hour non-stop flight, he isn’t exactly <em>keen</em> on unpacking… but while the clocks say it’s nearly midnight in London, his body is still running like it’s only just mid-afternoon in LA and he knows if he climbed into bed now he’d be awake and staring at the ceiling for hours yet. And his mind… has not been the most trustworthy place for him to be, lately.</p><p>Hauling the suitcase onto the bed next to the spread of Kal’s fluff, he takes a minute to give the Akita another good pet, crouching down and scratching into the too-thick fur.</p><p>“I have to give you a good grooming, don’t I? Look at all this fur you’ve got, Bear.”</p><p>Kal pants, nosing into his arm and hand; Henry huffs a laugh and smiles before pushing back up, his hand giving one last rub over the dog’s head. “Tomorrow then, yeah? Good. It’s a date then.”</p><p>Opening his suitcase, his clothes smell like travelling, that slightly stale smell caught in a bit of sunscreen and salt and sunshine from LA; he dumps most of the top layers right into a hamper without much of a thought, mostly t-shirts, jeans and workout clothes that don’t need much sorting. Unrolling the two belts he packed, he hangs them next to his others in the hooks in his closet. Taking the extra time to do it properly, he shakes out his trousers, checking the pockets and dumping them into another hamper for dry cleaning… until his fingers hit something soft in the right pocket of the last pair.</p><p>He pulls it out and comes face to face with the bit of lace hanging from his finger.</p><p>He stares at it.</p><p>Kal whuffs softly on the bed, nosing the open flap of his suitcase, investigating the airport smells.</p><p>“Yeah,” he mutters, his jaw clenching as the memories follow, swelling in the back of his mind like a slow-rising tide. “I know. It is a bit of a creep move, isn’t it? In my defence, I didn’t really mean to keep them.”</p><p>He was going to give them back.</p><p>Really. (<em>Except that might not be true, is it</em>, he thinks<em>, because you had them in your pocket all the way through that second night and that second morning and right before you left you—)</em></p><p>He’d found them that first morning, trapped in the twisted-up, mostly off the bed, hotel duvet as he’d been getting ready after… after she’d <em>run off </em>on him and he’d been left laughing, still hard and thinking about her well past the time he probably <em>should have.</em></p><p>But his assistant had been waiting on him, standing just inside his hotel room door, already ready to go and get to the interview… and he’d… shoved them into his pocket and felt them there, through the car ride, the interview, the conversations after, distracting him to the point where he’d caught himself fingering the edge of the lace in his pocket more than once.</p><p>More than many, many times, really.</p><p>He’d never been so thankful for pretentious, black marble desks than he had that day. Because while there’s a certain level of exposure he’s gotten used to in the years of being on film, it isn’t quite the same as walking around with a hard-on at an editor’s office after giving an interview about ‘who he is as a person’ outside of ‘Hollywood and the movie screen.’</p><p>(When all he’d been was five minutes from excusing himself to a loo (or any lockable door) and jerking off onto said lace in his pocket.)</p><p>He’d felt like a teenager, like he’d gone from thirty-four to thirteen, where all there was in his head was tits and ass and his own dick. (Except that it was a very specific set of tits and one incredibly cute ass that was distracting him.)</p><p>He hadn’t been lying when he’d told her that he’d been thinking about her all day. How the lace looked on her, pulled to the side of her cunt, slick with her arousal, hooked beneath his finger. Twisted up on her hip, his hand gripping onto it, pulling her hips up into his as he pushed inside of her…</p><p>His cock twitches.</p><p>He pulls in a breath, letting it out slowly. His fingers close around the underwear and he looks at Kal. “I bet this is how you feel when I tell you that you can’t do something, huh? Makes you want to do it more.”</p><p>He just isn’t sure if he means reaching for his phone or his cock.</p><p>He huffs a laugh that’s more a puff of frustrated amusement and tosses the underwear towards the hamper. “Ridiculous, eh, Kal?”</p><p>Kal <em>whuffs</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>               </p><p>                Sofie stretches her hand over her left hip, straining her wet fingers to try to line them up to the faint, five-fingered marks still crowning the curve of her hipbone.</p><p>Her fingers don’t fit, no matter how she angles herself or stretches her hand wide, the bruises lie just beyond her fingertips, sit just out of reach above her handspan.</p><p>They’re already shades later than what they looked like in the mirror that first night. (Coming back to her weirdly-empty hotel room, standing in the too-quiet bathroom while the shower ran too-hot, steaming the mirror and fading the marks even more, until all there was was the peachy blur of her body beneath the crawling steam.)</p><p>She blows out a breath into her shower, ignoring the heat in her belly that settles lower the longer she looks at the fading bruises, the ache between her hips that’s only a memory now, no matter how much she’d felt him after, sitting next to her mother, with an ache that made her feel <em>full</em>. <em>Sparking</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Alive. </em>
</p><p>(It faded first, slipped away like the drip of his cum that first day that left her as slick-edged as the seat of her underwear.)</p><p>The shower is hot and the air gets thicker as the shower rains down against her back, slides over her shoulders, streams her breasts, where she can still see the marks his mouth left, sucking at her skin, her nipples, the inner slope along the little curve of them.</p><p>She lines her finger up over a bruise just above her hipbone and pushes in until she can feel it.</p><p>(She doesn’t think about how it was his thumb that left it. Doesn’t think about how his hand curved along her side before gripping her hip. Doesn’t think about how his thumb sunk in as his cock pushed into her deeper.</p><p>She <em>doesn’t</em>.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>               </p><p>                “Where’d you get the hat?” Sara asks picking up the red cap with KC stitched into the front.</p><p>Sofie’s insides twist from where she’s lying on her bed, and she has to bite back the urge to rocket off the bed and grab it out of Sara’s hands to hide it. She curses herself for leaving it out, she <em>should</em> have thrown it out when she first unpacked. She doesn’t know why she kept it.</p><p><em>Liar</em>, she thinks, <em>you know exactly why. You could have left it in the hotel room. You could have given it back.</em></p><p>“Didn’t bring a cap to New York and I went running in Central Park and it was, you know,” <em>A really bad excuse,</em> she thinks, <em>you suck, Sofie.</em> “Sunny. Hot.”</p><p>
  <em>It’s fucking April.</em>
</p><p>“What’s KC?”</p><p>“No idea,” Sofie shrugs and it isn’t a lie, she really has no idea what KC means, she’d never gotten around to asking. She eyes her phone, lying dark-screened by her pillow and bites back the urge to text him.</p><p><em>What’s KC? </em>She’d ask.</p><p><em>I forgot you had that, </em>he’d say and Sofie would text back: <em>it’s a nice hat. You know, decent memories</em>. Maybe with a smiley emoticon, or like, a winky one if she was feeling risky.</p><p>And then he’d flirt back and—</p><p>And <em>nothing</em>, because he could literally be anywhere in the world right now and Sofie is in <em>Portland</em>.</p><p>She hugs her pillow, pushing her face into it, half-listening to Sara setting the cap back down. The mattress sinks at her side as her friend stretches out beside her on the bed.</p><p>“When’s Liam coming?”</p><p><em>Soon,</em> she mumbles into her pillow, <em>he’s at dinner with his parents.</em></p><p>But she’s thinking about Henry’s hand in her hair, that tug he’d given her ponytail when he’d put the cap on her head, adjusting it because she’d been uncomfortable with the fan-club and cameras outside of the hotel. He didn’t even have to ask, he’d just… understood.</p><p>She doesn’t know why she liked that so much, only that she did. Does.</p><p><em>Did</em>.</p><p>“You alright? You’ve been weird lately.”</p><p>She turns her head, pushing the memory away as it spills into his hand pushing her wet hair off her face in the shower, smoothing it down her back, the way his chest rumbled with his words like the roll of an engine.</p><p>“I’m fine,” she says and forces a smile, picking up her phone when a text lights up the screen.</p><p>
  <em>Liam: omw, want anything?</em>
</p><p><em>No,</em> she texts back. <em>I’m good.</em></p><p>“Really. Totally good,” she says when Sara pulls a face at her. “Pick something on Netflix, I don’t want to listen to Liam complain that we always spend half the night deciding what to watch.”</p><p> </p><p>               </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>               </p><p>                It’s an overcast day in London, but he still tugs the cap over his head, pulling the front a little lower to help hide his face before he tucks his earbuds in and opens up Spotify and—</p><p>And hesitates only for a second before he clicks into Sofie’s playlist and hits shuffle.</p><p>(It’s not quite the same, he realises, listening to her playlist without her there lip-syncing along, connected by the length of the headphone splitter, her smile is—</p><p><em>Was something,</em> he thinks.)</p><p>But he still listens to it, walking with Kal at his side, thinking about how quickly Durrell is coming up and how he should go for a proper run later today to make sure he can get through the race with his brothers and not embarrass himself too badly while trying to adjust to some of the new weight he’s carrying in anticipation of what he thinks would work for, and look best for, The Witcher.</p><p>Fingers crossed, and all.</p><p> </p><p>(He doesn’t even skip the Abba when it comes on. Feels a smile tug at his lips and has to drop his head, hoping that no one can see him smiling to himself like an idiot while he walks down another London street with his dog beside him.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sofie rolls over in her bed, her head buzzing a little from lack of sleep, <em>and too much junk food,</em> she thinks; her legs tangled with Sara’s, who’s stretched out beside her and buried beneath the blankets. In the dark, with the Netflix screen paused on <em>Are you still watching?</em> She can just make Liam out on the floor, spread out and snoring lightly, throw pillows beneath his head and cheek and one of Sofie’s childhood stuffed animals tucked in his arm.</p><p>She blinks, reaching for her phone on her night table, blinking blurrily at the glare of the screen, too-bright in the still-dark of her bedroom.</p><p><em>Don’t be stupid,</em> her mind tells her, but tiredness makes the voice too weak and soft to pay attention to; and before she can really even think about it, she thumbs open Instagram, types in <em>Henry</em> and clicks on the little icon that pops up.</p><p>His face fills her screen, or well, little square pictures of him do. And Sofie clicks on the newest, a picture of him taken today, wearing a black ball cap that makes her glance at her dresser, where the incriminating red cap sits, exposing all her lies—</p><p>Or it would if anyone had any clue where it was really from.</p><p>Her stomach twists, she sinks her teeth into her cheek, her heart ticking harder in her chest as she reads the caption. He’s training for a race, something about Jersey and she wonders if he’s coming back to America for it.</p><p><em>Don’t be stupid, Sofie,</em> she thinks, dropping her phone onto her lap and rubbing at her eyes. Her head spins a little, and she yawns, blinking heavily in the quiet, her mind sinking beneath memories. <em>What does it matter if he comes back, or if he never even left the East Coast at all?</em></p><p><em>But he looks good</em>, she thinks, sort of tanned. She scrolls down, watching a silent clip of something to do with a GQ photoshoot, <em>behind the scenes</em> is in his caption and she finds it fucking weird to stare at him on her phone, looking like that guy that took her to the club, the one in the restaurant, the Movie Star—</p><p>To think about <em>how</em> she knows him instead, sweaty and running beside her, him in bed beside her, about the way his breath puffed against her mouth when he laughed into a kiss. The way he took up space, <em>her space</em> so easily, like it was—</p><p>Sofie swallows, shoving the thoughts away.</p><p>The next post is of a big, fluffy black and white dog and Sofie smiles in the glow of her phone, reading his caption and looking at the progress pictures and video of him trimming the thick fur of his dog, <em>Bear</em> or <em>Kal</em>, she thinks, she isn’t sure.</p><p>She keeps scrolling, and decides, sometime around watching him in another silent video, that no one should be allowed to look so good with so stupid a moustache.</p><p>It’s just not <em>fair.</em></p><p>Or like, <em>humanly possible.</em></p><p>She rolls over, locking her phone and tucking her face into her pillow; trying to not let that heavy, weirdly choking feeling inside of her drag her down.</p><p>You can’t miss someone you don’t even really <em>know</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Can you?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                He stretches as best he can, rolling his shoulders in his seat, four hours into his flight, with another six to go.</p><p>He drops his head back against his seat, blowing out a breath and closing his eyes.</p><p>“Sorry, sir? Would you like anything to drink?” the attendant asks, her smile small, her eyelashes sinking as she looks him over; which still sort of surprises him, as he’s in an old grey t-shirt and jeans, unshaven, with a <em>fantasy book</em>, ear-marked with sticky notes and notations, spread open on his lap, with <em>more</em> papers, covered in his own slanted, messy scrawl spread over the table in front of him.</p><p>Not exactly the GQ, celebrity look, is it?</p><p>But still, the attendant looks down, along his shoulder and chest and he thinks about Sofie’s eyelashes, the way they fluttered down over the flush in her cheeks, all clumped together and shiny from the shower. </p><p><em>Jesus, Cavill, that’s enough,</em> he thinks, and smiles at the woman, pushing the memory away. “Just water, thank you.”</p><p>She nods, hesitating like she’s going to say something more… before telling him they’ll be serving lunch soon and moving on.</p><p>He’s glad it’s a non-stop flight because he spends the rest of it trying to focus on the days ahead, on how little free time he has, how each day is planned out, how just because he’s on the same <em>continent</em> as her, doesn’t mean there’s any <em>point—</em></p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Vegas is <em>hot,</em> and even though he knows, logically, it isn’t <em>much</em> warmer than LA, the sun feels like it’s beating down on him all the way from the airport exit. He doesn’t have the heart to push Kal off his leg, where his head is draped over his thigh, even though he can feel the sweat on his skin growing beneath the heat of Kal’s fur and weight and his own jeans.</p><p>He scratches at the Akita’s ears and watches the streets go by as the driver takes him to the hotel; his phone buzzing in his pocket, catching up to all the missed texts and emails from the length of time it was on flight mode. He thumbs it open, scratching at Kal’s head absently, scrolling through messages and seeing what he needs to answer first.</p><p>He hesitates on the drafted message box with Sofie’s name on it. The message sitting unsent for two weeks. He opens it and deletes what he typed, trying not to reread it, not wanting to see what stupid things he was going to say to her… but after he clears the text, he finds himself typing out something new.</p><p>
  <em>I’m in Vegas for a few days, it’s a six-hour flight to Maine, not that I looked it up, or anything. Because I don’t even know where you live, just that you’re in Maine which is on the East Coast and looks like a lovely place, really.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s CinemaCon here this weekend, but after that, I’ve got a bit of time off—</em>
</p><p>And <em>what</em>, he thinks, <em>can I pop round and pick up where we left off?</em> <em>I stole your underwear, isn’t that hilarious? I’m pretty sure you fucked me up a bit here, Sofie, and I think I need another round or two to get you out of my head.</em></p><p>He grits his teeth, pushing out an irritated breath, staring at the message screen before opening his contacts and pressing his thumb over <em>Sofie</em>.</p><p>The <em>Delete Contact?</em> pops up, red and waiting for confirmation.</p><p>He hesitates. Clenching his jaw and telling himself to just hit the<em> fucking button</em>—</p><p>But he closes his contacts, locking his phone and looking back out the window.</p><p>
  <em>Twenty-one is legal everywhere in the world, you know that right?</em>
</p><p><em>Yes, </em>he thinks,<em> but legal and right are pretty bloody different things, Sof-bee.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sofie drops down beside Sara on the mat, the gym’s cold air-con blowing over her skin. Still breathing hard, she stares at the ceiling, watching one of the big, black-blade fans going round and round.</p><p>Sara stretches out beside her finishing her last lunge, not one for working out more than she needs to, she knows the other girl is all too happy to take a break.</p><p>In the speakers, Camilla Cabello sings about Havana. <em>Ooh-na-na.</em></p><p>Sofie blinks at the ceiling fan. “I hooked up with someone in New York.”</p><p>It’s quiet for a heartbeat, too quiet, the cold air pushing goosebumps over her skin. She bites her cheek, the words hang in her ears, slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them. But she manages to bite back the: <em>it was Henry Cavill </em>that wants to spill out like bile. <em>You know, stupid hot, played Superman, pretty sure you said he was the hottest thing ever after we saw Man From Uncle.</em></p><p>“You hooked— wait <em>what?</em>”</p><p>Sofie closes her eyes and swallows. “I met this guy. We hung out and we…” <em>ran together, listened to music, slept together, kinda-sorta-definitely had unprotected sex in a shower.</em> “…Fucked.”</p><p>Another beat of silence and then Sara’s up and kneeling over Sofie, bracing herself on her hands and knees, her eyes wide, her grin even wider as she looks down at her.</p><p>“Sofie Miller you little <em>slut!</em>”</p><p>Sofie swallows, something pangs in her chest and she thinks, <em>am I?</em></p><p>
  <em>Is that why he left and didn’t ever reach out, he has my phone number, he could, if he wanted to, he could. I shouldn’t have slept with him, if I’d played harder to get maybe we’d still be talking, maybe we’d be friends, even. I liked running with him. He was— Maybe he’d—</em>
</p><p>Sofie winces, covering her face with her forearm, blocking Sara’s face out of her sight. Blocking Sara from seeing <em>her face…</em> because she kinda thinks she might cry.</p><p>“You’ve been hiding this for like— three whole <em>weeks!</em>” she goes on, indignant, too caught on Sofie hooking up with someone to notice that she’s barely holding onto just blurting everything out. “I can’t believe you didn’t say anything— was he hot? Oh my <em>God,</em> Sof, I can’t believe—Wait, was it even <em>good?</em> Are you still talking to him?”</p><p>Sofie shakes her head. “No, I’m not still talking to him. It was… ” her chest quivers, everything that’s been hanging heavy inside of her bubbles up, making it hard to breathe. “It was so <em>stupid—</em>”</p><p>“<em>Hey</em>,” Sara soothes, dropping back down beside her, her voice low. “Hey, what— I’m sorry, I was just… I was just being stupid. You’re not a slut. And who cares, even if you were. As long as you wanted to fuck him, and like, you were both into it.”</p><p>Sofie shakes her head, trying to will the ache in her throat away, but it’s all piling up, spilling hotter inside of her and she can feel the leak of tears, slipping against her forearm.</p><p>“I think I <em>liked</em> him,” she says and it catches in her chest, wobbles out of her throat, her lip trembling. “I’m so <em>stupid.</em>”</p><p>“<em>Oh, Sof—</em>Have you tried reaching out to him? Wait, do you even know who he is?” Sara asks, her hand trying to pull Sofie’s forearm away from her face. Sofie rolls to sit up, scrubbing at her eyes and wiping her face, sniffling and trying to swallow past the lump in her throat.</p><p><em>Stop crying,</em> she tells herself. <em>It’s almost been a month, you don’t even know him. Not really.</em></p><p>“He’s… He’s like…” Sofie shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. I— I gave him my number, if he’d wanted to— to text then— then he would have? Right?”</p><p>Sara gives her a look, her face full of worry and— and something Sofie doesn’t want to think of as pity, but it <em>might</em> be. “Well. I mean. Fuck him, then. Right? Screw New York guy.”</p><p>Sofie huffs, dropping her head into her hands, his name knocks against her teeth like acid, <em>it was Henry fucking Cavill, Sara. Henry fucking Cavill.</em></p><p>But she forces his name back down, chews each letter, the memory of him, each bruise that’s long since faded from her skin, until she can speak again without being afraid she’s going to spill his name or like, every fucking moment she spent with him.</p><p>“Sorry, it’s so stupid. I can’t believe I even did it. I just… I dunno,” she says wetly, wiping her face again and blinking at Sara before forcing a smile. “It’s fine, sorry. I’m being stupid. It was fun. He was like— I mean it was really good, you know? Like <em>wow good</em>.”</p><p>It comes out forced and fake and Sara knows her too well to buy Sofie’s attempt at pretending she’s fine. Sofie kind of hates her for it, just like, a little bit.</p><p>Her friend says nothing, eyes flicking over Sofie’s face. “So we’re <em>definitely</em> going out tonight, you know that, right?  The only answer to getting hung up on a guy is to like, get shit-faced and forget the guy? Find someone hotter. Better. Less New York more… okay, not <em>Portland, </em>but you know,<em> here. </em>Someone in the same like, <em>state </em>would be a good start.”</p><p>Sofie snorts, flopping back down against the mat and rubbing her eyes while pushing out a breath. <em>Don’t think ‘hotter’ is going to happen,</em> she wants to say but doesn’t because there’s no way to explain him without just <em>explaining</em> him and she… she just doesn’t want it to be about <em>that.</em></p><p>He might be <em>Superman,</em> but for a little bit of time there, she thinks, he was just…</p><p><em>Hers</em>.</p><p>Which is <em>stupid, </em>isn't it?<em><br/></em></p><p>“Yeah, okay,” Sofie says even though she isn’t sure it’s going to do much at all.</p><p>She kind of just wants to eat a gallon of ice cream and bury herself in her bed for a solid week because all of his marks are gone and there’s <em>nothing</em> left but a stupid red hat she doesn’t even understand and—</p><p>And she’s spent more time than she will <em>ever</em> admit to <em>anyone</em> on his Instagram and— and she might have like, <em>stumbled</em> into reading up on one of his exes and— and the age difference was pretty much the same between her and him and Sofie and him… so he can’t really have that much of an issue with Sofie being younger than him, right? It must just be that she was… was convenient. That she was <em>there</em> and willing and it must have been so <em>fucking obvious</em> to him that she wanted him. But it wasn’t anything to him but a hook-up—</p><p>Which is fine, she tells herself. <em>It’s Fine.</em></p><p>She wouldn’t want to be his girlfriend anyway, because who wants to be forever known as someone’s ex for like, the rest of their lives? No one, that’s who. And worse to be known as Superman’s New York hook-up. So like, it’s <em>Fine</em>.</p><p>It’s so <em>Fine</em> it’s like—</p><p>Like <em>Great.</em> <em>Perfect</em>. Nothing at all.</p><p>(He stands in her hotel room, fresh from the shower, looking at Sofie in her towel, sliding his keycard and phone into his pocket and hesitating—</p><p>His hand on her chin, his voice soft, his lips—</p><p>
  <em>I’ll see you around, Sof-bee.)</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>* *</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                She’s wrong, Sara is <em>brilliant.</em></p><p> </p><p>Like the <em>best friend</em> <em>ever</em>— she yells, leaning into and kissing her cheek, her lip gloss sliding shiny and sticky across her skin. Sara laughs and they stumble a little, bodies liquor-loose, the beat of the music drowning out everything that isn’t sticky and shiny and tinted in that haze of almost-too-much alcohol.</p><p>Liam pushes through the crowd towards where she and Sara are waiting just at the end of the bar; she takes one of the three shots he has, balanced precariously in his hands, his fingers slippery and sticky in a way that absolutely <em>doesn’t</em> make her think of Henry clinking his shot against hers, his smile crooked and eyes—</p><p>
  <em>Thought you were getting fucked up?</em>
</p><p><em>I absolutely am, </em>she thinks and knocks the shot back, scrunching her face up through the burn before laughing and pulling both of her friends back towards the dance floor.</p><p>It’s easy to get lost in it, the press of bodies, the thump of the music, the hum of alcohol that makes her careless about who she’s dancing with, about whose hand grips her hip, or whose body she’s pressed up against. It’s not about anything other than forgetting the things in her head that are all wrapped up in a memory of him watching her across the club, of a girl’s voice in her ear saying, <em>he’s watching you, you know—</em></p><p>Of his hand on her thigh, the heat of his chest through his shirt. Of the press of his body against hers—</p><p>Of his hand on her chin, <em>see you around, Sof-bee.</em></p><p>It’s hot. Too hot, Sofie feels the sweat, the stick of her dress to her skin every time she rolls her hips or lifts her arms, her hair sticking to the damp back of her neck.</p><p>The club isn’t half as luxurious as the one he took her to, the bodies press closer together all limbs and sweat mixed with Old Spice and Axe body-spray; the air is hotter and heavier, the music louder—</p><p>He’s above her, weighing her down, his voice in her ear, voice more growl, groan, rolling sound that burns and builds inside of her the way his cock fills her up, stretches her, leaves her squirming and begging and too full—</p><p>Time slips and slides into the beat of the music and the press of her friends around her, the memories fade as Sofie slips closer and closer towards <em>fucked-up.</em> And at some point, while her arms are around Sara’s neck and they’re laughing, heads tilted back and moving stupidly to the music, Sofie isn’t thinking about anything at all—</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>* *</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sofie blinks into the sunlight that’s pouring into her room in too-bright streams and burning red behind her eyelids; groaning she pulls her pillow over her face and hears an echoing groan from Sara or Liam or maybe both, she isn’t sure who made it onto the bed with her this time and she doesn’t care to check.</p><p>She swallows, eyes heavy and sticky, her mouth dry, wanting to slip back into sleep and ignore the sunlight that streaks over her bed.</p><p>But she really has to pee.</p><p>Like <em>really</em>.</p><p>She holds off for as long as she can, her limbs still feeling too heavy, too loose to control, but eventually the need to pee can’t be ignored and Sofie pouts, rolling over and out from beneath Liam’s arm, before realising Sara’s on the bed too, but her head is somewhere near the bottom of the bed and her feet are in Sofie’s stomach.</p><p>It’s a <em>lot</em> of effort to get her body over Sara’s legs, an awkward and clumsy flop, planting one foot on the floor before sort of sliding herself over them and wobbling there, blinking and swaying before she remembers why she moved in the first place.</p><p>She’s pretty sure it’s the longest pee of her <em>life.</em></p><p>In the mirror while washing her hands, Sofie squints at herself, her hair a wild mess, sticking up and out of whatever bun she tried to throw it up into the night before; only blurrily remembers coming back from the bar, remembers another drink or two, remembers the three of them piling onto, and spreading out on the bed with a bag or two of chips…</p><p><em>Ugh</em>, she thinks, and stumbles back into her room and towards her bed, barely managing to clear Sara’s legs before she’s flopping down and burying herself back into the covers.</p><p>Liam grumbles a bit, his face buried in the pillow his arm floppy and heavy as it flops over her back. Sofie blinks into the sunlight, willing herself back into sleep.</p><p>On her night table, her phone blinks with a notification.</p><p>With a huff, when sleep doesn’t come slipping back over her the way she wants it to, Sofie reaches for her phone, thumbing the home button to see what the notification—</p><p>Sofie shoots up, knocking Liam’s arm off of her, jostling Sara who kicks her sleepily and grumbles before rolling herself up tighter in Sofie’s throw blanket.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>2:48 am henrycavill liked a video you sent</em>
</p><p>
  <em>2:55 am henrycavill sent you a message</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>               </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm on the fence on using his family directly in this story, I think I'll just allude to them or something without totally using names, maybe...I think. Not sure yet. Like for the most part, even though I know he has an assistant and all that jazz, and obviously real-life exes, I won't be using names, or I'll be making up names, because while I can sort of work myself around writing about an actor, I'm not so comfortable using other people in his life, I don't think. </p><p> </p><p>And I promise we'll get some actual interaction next chapter. Hopefully you enjoyed this transition chapter anyway, and again, sorry it wasn't the most exciting one, but it was a necessary one. :)</p><p>Thanks for all the support guys, you the best!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I AM SO SORRY this chapter took way too long, real life's been a bit of a b-word lately and yeah, just like zero-zilch-nada on the writing time, which like, SUCKS.</p><p>but I promise i will do my utmost best to not take this long on the next chapter. and I promise it will be much more exciting than this one.</p><p>Anyway, hope you enjoy this very late chapter. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Tom Cruise ducks out first.</p><p>Not that Tom Cruise <em>ducks</em> out anywhere.</p><p>Tom Cruise leaves the room with fanfare appropriate to someone whose been in the business since the eighties. With a megawatt smile and a gracious, somehow completely sincere goodbye-handshake while going on about catching up again sometime before the next scheduled promotion for the movie. When Henry finally gets his hand back, he finds himself believing him… or at least, believing that at the moment, Tom Cruise really does mean it.</p><p>Which is flattering, in its own odd sort of way.</p><p>He thinks the group relaxes after that, like Tom Cruise and all his seemingly never-ending smiles and humour and good moods were like a boom mic hanging above them, catching everything they say, and now that it’s gone, they’re just a little bit more free to say what they want.</p><p>To be less celebrity and more… four tired people coming out of a long shoot while being well aware that they still have months of promotions to get through.</p><p>“Pint?” Simon asks, his brows lifting, his head rolling to the side like he’s been waiting to ask for hours now.</p><p>Henry eases a little more in his seat and pops another button on his shirt, loosening the strain of it across his chest; he hesitates only for a minute because he probably <em>shouldn’t</em> have a drink, what with what the schedule he’s on… and that they really do have months of promotions and premieres to get through and no one wants to roll through those looking all that different from how they do in the movie they're supposed to be promoting.</p><p>But he pulls a considering face and shrugs. “Yeah, why not.”</p><p>Simon grins, making some sort of <em>ayy</em> noise as he flags down one of the many servers flitting about the room.</p><p>Rebecca and Angela are sitting across from them, heads tilted a little together as they chat. Simon asks them if they want anything when the server shows and it pulls all of them into an easy conversation about the next few months.</p><p>There’s not really much more binding than knowing that you will, for better or worse, be spending months with the same people, talking about the same things, answering the same questions, and hearing-slash-making the same jokes. (He’s pretty sure he— and they— are already sick of hearing how much Tom Cruise loved that whole fist-pump Henry did during a fight scene and he knows it’s going to be A Thing—)</p><p>
  <em>A Thing.</em>
</p><p>His lips twitch and he hides it in a wider smile, (<em>she’s </em>in his head, in the glow of the early sunlight, her smile easily the brightest thing he’s seen in a long time, dimple-cheeked and completely, refreshingly <em>real</em>) as the server brings their drinks to the table and there’s a quick, half-hearted toast to each other and everything ahead.</p><p>His thoughts about Sofie fade away again as the director comes to join them at the table and slips into their conversation.</p><p>One pint (which is less of a true pint than it is some sort of fancy local-brewed yeasty-fruity thing) turns into two, turns into Simon and him slinging terrible imitations of accents across the UK and Europe and a few more American ones, that thankfully seem to entertain the other half of the table just as much as it entertains the two of them.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>            Angela slips off next, a barely concealed yawn and a kiss on his cheek, which trips him up a bit, because sometimes there are these names you know, just <em>names</em> that have weight to them, even if you’ve never really seen a film of theirs or know anything about them.</p><p>Angela Basset is definitely one of those names.</p><p>Like Tom Cruise, but well… less caught up in couch-jumping (and weird religions he is trying his utmost best to politely avoid.)</p><p>At some point, the table fills again; a revolving door of other actors and directors and creators coming round to meet and greet. All of them, Henry’s sure, have by now hit that slightly-loose stage of being plus two pints (or whatever drink they favour,) and it makes things more enjoyable as the hours pass. But, he finds himself a little bored, the good time that was easy enough to find with just his co-stars turns into having to be a little bit more alert, to shake a hand if needed, or even just introduce himself to someone that may, at some point have some sort of impact on his career.</p><p>Which is always a very real possibility and always does bring him right back to the reminder that even drinks with co-stars after an event are technically still part of his workday.</p><p>Though it does get a little better again when J.J Abrams joins the table and the conversation shifts to Star Trek. Which… he can’t lie, is a pretty safe, easy and enjoyable conversation for him to have. Doesn’t need to go boldly, and all. It’s <em>Star Trek.</em></p><p>When his phone goes off in his pocket, he reaches for it, shifting in his seat to get it out of his trouser pocket, the notification light blinking steadily. His thumb slides over the home button, and he squints at the glow of the screen a bit, the lighting in the event room is dim at best, add in a drink or three after not imbibing anything more than water or coffee for a few weeks, and the screen seems far brighter than it probably <em>should.</em></p><p>There’s a message from his manager, checking in on how the evening went, and Henry types out a reply before flicking over to Instagram and posting a picture of himself and the room behind him on his page with a little message about a fun day at <em>#cinemacon</em>. And then another with Simon and J.J.</p><p>
  <em>#boldlygo</em>
</p><p>He spends a minute scrolling through some of his post replies and notifications when—</p><p>
  <em>Sofie.bee.miller sent you a video</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sofie.bee.miller sent you a message</em>
</p><p>He blinks.</p><p>Sofie.<em>bee</em>— that can’t be a coincidence, can it?</p><p>His thumb moves towards the notification even as his mind struggles to catch up, staring at the message she sent and the waiting-to-be-played <em>video.</em></p><p><em>Video</em>, he thinks, she sent him a <em>video</em>?</p><p>Three weeks of nothing and she sends him—</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>See I can be a drinking girl and a dancing girl </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He huffs a breath that’s caught somewhere between humour and disbelief and something even more like <em>eagerness</em>; clicking the play button on the video and watching avidly as it starts right away. A blur of colours and bodies and shifting lights and—</p><p>And then, <em>Sofie</em>.</p><p>She’s dancing with a girl, looking so much like that night in the club it’s like he tripped back in time, lit by shifting colours, her hair fraying loose from a ponytail as her head tilts and her body moves.</p><p>The camera focuses on her for another moment, a stretch of time that feels longer than the four seconds in the corner of the screen says it actually is. Sofie dances, her arm coming up to brush her hair out of her face as her hips sway, oblivious to being filmed—</p><p>And then she’s not. She’s looking right into the camera, laughing and grinning at him—<em>not at him</em>, at whoever’s filming her. The lights strip across her and the girl in bright colours, and it’s obvious they’re at some sort of club, the people in the background are all moving in the same rhythm Sofie is with the girl she’s dancing with.</p><p>Her mouth moves, still grinning at the camera as she says something, and his thumb hovers over the sound button before he remembers where he is and stops himself.</p><p>She reaches out, the camera blurs, and shakes and refocuses on her again as she tugs whoever is behind the camera into her space—</p><p>And then he jolts a little, as Simon’s elbow nudges into his side. “Eh, Hank, can you believe that? I’m still trying to wrap my head ‘round it.”</p><p>His thumb slides over the lock button and the screen goes dark, he blinks Sofie’s face behind his eyelids, stuck there like the too-bright glow of the screen as he tries to figure out just what he might or might not be able to believe.</p><p>He looks up just as Simon’s head turns towards him, and he glances down at the phone in his hand and at Henry’s face before he grins. “About Tarantino, eh?”</p><p><em>Right,</em> he thinks, he’s heard the talk about Tarantino stepping into Star Trek. He hasn’t given it much thought other than his initial reaction of: <em>Tarantino, really?</em></p><p>Which seems to be, really, most people’s reactions.</p><p>The weight of his phone in his hand is distracting, wanting to know how much more video there was, why she sent him it at all… why a <em>video?</em> Why—</p><p>Why after three weeks?</p><p>The back of his mind itches with the truth, that this was probably a drunk text, that she probably regrets it. Or will in the morning. That three weeks of silence on her end is just as telling as the three weeks of silence on his—</p><p>Even though, he knows, those three weeks have been filled with moments, memories, <em>maybes—</em></p><p>On his end, at least.</p><p>“Heard about that,” he says to Simon and then to J.J, trying to focus on the room and not the girl that only exists in a little video on his phone, (and in a well-visited series of memories whenever he sets a hand to his cock.) “You think it’s a go?”</p><p>J.J shrugs, and launches into something about a script and a pitch, but Henry’s waiting for the exact moment the Simon turns his head back to the director— and thumbs his phone open again.</p><p>He hits play, the video picks up again, Sofie reaches out to the camera, and she’s grinning, laughing, a blur of bright colours as the person behind the camera reaches out to her, and it’s all shaky and blurry again, and he’s annoyed enough that he wants to tell the person holding the camera to <em>be better—</em> but it’s still her there, just out of focus.</p><p>And then the video rights itself again and she’s pressed up against some bloke’s chest, reaching up for the camera while her other hand reaches up to curve around the guy’s neck.</p><p>The bloke comes into focus, laughing down at Sofie as she tries to take the phone— she says something else, reaching for it again, but the guy angles it higher, out of her reach; he tilts his head up, pulls some stupid face with his tongue out that she copies, obviously thinking it’s a photo—</p><p>And then she laughs, her nose scrunching as she realises it’s not, that it’s a video and the guy laughs with her, his arm curving around her waist—</p><p>And the video cuts off.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He looks up, glances around the table.</p><p>And hits play again.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>When it ends again, and he’s watched her hair, her smile, the way her dress slides across her thighs, he’s left staring at the still video, at her message beneath it:</p><p>
  <em>see I can be a drinking girl and a dancing girl  </em>
</p><p>He remembers asking her that, if she was a dancing girl or a drinking girl, pretending to know her even though he didn’t. Doesn’t.</p><p>
  <em>Fucking does it matter?</em>
</p><p>He remembers knocking his shot into hers, the way she’s looked at him in the glow of the table, and the lights in the club, the way he’d wanted to chase the taste of that alcohol from her lips, to see if her tongue could be as sweet as her smile was— if all of her could be as sweet as her smile was.</p><p>He pushes out a breath, hitting play on the video again. He squints at the screen, trying to catch every detail, every moment, even as—</p><p>Even as he’s left wondering why the fuck she would send <em>this</em> of all things? Out of anything she could send, why <em>this</em>? Why her dancing with someone else? Is it to make him jealous? Because he might—</p><p>He blows out a breath. His finger itching to turn the volume up, to see if she says anything, if his name comes out of her mouth at all, or if it’s just the way it looks: that she’s out, dancing and drinking and having fun and he’s here—</p><p>Still thinking about her.</p><p>Three fucking weeks later.</p><p>He locks his phone, reaching for his drink, knocking back the dredges; the room-temperature beer hits his tongue and he can feel his mood sinking—</p><p>And then he unlocks his phone and looks at her message again, thumb hesitating over the video before he clicks on her name, opening her profile and scanning over the little squares of pictures that pop up.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Sofie.bee.miller</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Portland, Maine</em>
</p><p>
  <em>VIP@secondchapter</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He clicks the link, a bookstore popping up that looks like it’s in Maine, just like she is. He thumbs the back button, scrolling down her Instagram page and tapping the most recent picture. It’s from today, showing a rain-damp street and a bookstore, the same bookstore in the link in the blurb at the top of her page. He scrolls down, something impatient and irritated—</p><p>He scrolls through her pictures too quickly, over photos she obviously took in New York of buildings and people— and then there are three people in the next photo, but he can’t make out the faces, even though he thinks he knows those legs—</p><p>He pauses on the first photo that he can clearly make out as her, it’s a selfie with a girl, maybe the same girl in the start of the video, and it’s part of series, where he finds that same boy—</p><p>@liambolton</p><p>And he’s clicking on it before he can stop himself.</p><p> </p><p>Liam Bolton</p><p>Portland, Maine</p><p>#1VIP@secondchapter</p><p> </p><p>He frowns a little, scrolling down and finding the same video Sofie sent, another that he has to bite his cheek to stop himself from clicking on, and a slew of selfies and photos with Sofie and the other girl in the video. <em>Sara.park</em>, who <em>also</em> has the same video in her profile.</p><p><em>So… they’re friends,</em> his mind says, even as he still scrolls, looking for an answer to a question he isn’t sure he’s ready to admit is knocking around in his head.</p><p>
  <em>Is that her boyfriend?</em>
</p><p>It wouldn’t be the first time that a girl’s shown interest in him, even with her boyfriend standing right there with her. And it wouldn’t be a stretch to consider that maybe Sofie—</p><p>But he thinks about how she had looked in the elevator— how she’d looked <em>at</em> him, thinking that he’d been lying to her, that he had a girlfriend even while he was… focused very much on her.</p><p>He locks his phone, looking out over the room, his mind rolling through that night in the restaurant, when he’d found her across the booths and tables and people and she’d looked lonely, <em>sad</em> almost and he’d wanted to make her smile, wanted to go over to her, wanted to pull her out of the booth and upstairs and listen to all those noises she made while he was inside of her, all over again.</p><p>He thinks about that moment in the elevator, the kiss he stole that was… softer than he meant it to be.</p><p>He wants to call her, he realises. Wants to ask the same question back, that he knows they never asked each other, knows they didn’t agree to anything, that <em>he left first, but</em>…</p><p>
  <em>But, Sofie, you seem a little less than single right now and I really, really don’t like the idea that you aren’t.</em>
</p><p>He itches to open her account back up and keep looking, find some answer in her posts— and he’s <em>irritated by it,</em> by it being three weeks later and just the sight of her with some <em>boy</em> in a video is sort of… fucking <em>irritating</em> him this much.</p><p>He reaches for his drink, blowing out a heavy breath when he realises he already finished it, slumping back in his seat and scrubbing a hand over his face.</p><p>“Alright, mate?” Simon asks, an eyebrow cocked.</p><p>Henry pushes his hand through his hair, pushing out another breath, unclenching his jaw. “Yeah, think I’m going to head out, though. Got a shoot in the morning.”</p><p>Simon nods, lifting the nearly-empty glass in his hand and tilting it back. “Should probably as well, you’re just upstairs, yeah?”</p><p>He nods, pushing up from the table and re-buttoning his suit jacket which feels three times as constraining as it did before. His irritation grows like it’s feeding itself, <em>irritated</em> at being <em>irritated</em> at all.</p><p><em>You’re not even dating her,</em> he tells himself,<em> fucking relax about it, Cavill. She’s not yours.</em></p><p> </p><p>But another part of him itches with,<em> but what if she was?</em></p><p> </p><p> Which only serves to irritate him more.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll walk with. Otherwise, I’ll end up down here for hours,” Simon laughs, pushing out from the table and knocking his chair back in. “Alright, you lot, we’ll see you all in Paris, yeah?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>               </p><p> </p><p>            His hotel room is quiet and empty, save for Kal perking his head up from where he’s sleeping, curled up at the end of his bed.</p><p>Henry’s reaching for his phone before the door even shuts, clicking on Instagram— And that irritates him, so instead, he types out a quick message to his assistant, thanking her for walking and feeding Kal, and then he makes himself put his phone down before heading into the bathroom to shower.</p><p>He showers quickly, pushing all his thoughts in the direction of tomorrows photoshoot, of LA and his flight, of all the things he has scheduled while he’s there.</p><p>It mostly works.</p><p>Until he climbs into bed and his phone feels like this endless silent alarm screaming at him from the side table that the girl he’s been thinking about for three weeks just messaged him and <em>don’t lie to yourself, Cavill, you want to message her back.</em></p><p> And he does, he knows, he wants to see her again, wants to ask her why she sent the video after three weeks, wants to ask her if she’s been thinking about him too. Wants to ask her who the fuck the boy in the video is.</p><p>If this was all just a big mistake and she’s too <em>fucked up </em>to mean it.</p><p>He’s opening Instagram before he can stop himself. Clicking into her profile, scrolling through her pictures but taking his time, rather than being too caught up in figuring out if that guy is something more to her than a friend.</p><p>She doesn’t have many posts, and a lot are just pictures of where she lives and works, nice shots of the coastline, of other people… and even more are just her friends, or some combination of the same two people, @liambolton and @sarapark.</p><p>He knows he shouldn’t be relieved by that, but he <em>is.</em></p><p>There are some silly photos that make his lips twitch, the three of them in hoodies with the drawstrings tied together, pulling faces into the camera with nothing more than just the centre of their faces visible in the bunch of the hood. A series of shots from obviously the same night, of them just… hanging out.</p><p>He hates that this makes him kind of jealous, too.</p><p>He thinks about that second night, maybe even more than the first, when it wasn’t just about fucking, wasn’t just about sating that itch between them; when he’d cum on her stomach and then they’d just… he doesn’t know what it was, <em>easy,</em> maybe. They’d talked and laughed and it hadn’t even been about anything before it turned into making out again, but it’d been… nice.</p><p><em>Nice.</em> Whatever that means.</p><p>She doesn’t take many selfies, or not many alone, anyway, but there are more of just her in the tagged photos posted by her friends. He pauses on one, a picture that looks like it was taken after a day at the beach, her hair crimpy and messy, her face touched pink, the sun setting…</p><p>He isn’t ashamed by clicking into her friends’ profiles, scrolling through their pictures, wondering if this is how other people feel scrolling through his, looking for more information than he gives to them already.</p><p>He isn’t sure if he feels like a creep or not, there has to be a little flex to the situation, hasn’t there? What with them already having slept together and all. A little leeway should be allowed after you’ve come on someone.</p><p>Or <em>in</em> them, as the case may be.</p><p>He watches the video a few more times than he wants to admit, turning the volume up as loud as he dares, but Kal’s ears still perk up at the tinny beat of the music that drowns almost everything else in the video out; but Sofie’s laughing at the camera— telling him (<em>not him</em>) to come dance with her and he can’t help but think back to the night at the club when she’d looked almost disappointed that he hadn’t come with her onto the dancefloor—</p><p>And now, he thinks, as he tracks back on the video again, restarting it before it reaches the part where the boy comes in, he wishes he had.</p><p>When he finally pulls himself away from creeping— no, he’s not creeping, he’s <em>looking</em> through her profile (and that boy’s just because he’s pretty sure they’re just friends, but he’s still…curious-worried-<em>irritated</em> by the idea that maybe there’s more there,) it’s dangerously close to two in the morning and he knows he has to be up early for the photo shoot and he’s already more than shot a reasonable amount of sleep. But he still stares at the message she sent, knowing he’s going to message her back, that there wasn’t ever another option, really, but—</p><p>But it still takes him a ridiculously shameful amount of time to figure out <em>what</em> to message her.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Buck up, Cavill. It’s now or never.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>               </p><p> </p><p>                <em>Drinking girl. Dancing girl. Hat thief. It’s quite the list.</em></p><p> </p><p>               </p><p>Sofie stares at the message, chewing her bottom lip, her fingers itching to type out a reply, glancing up at the cap on her dresser and trying not to smile… and then she rethinks the text.</p><p>
  <em>Wait, is he mad about the hat?</em>
</p><p><em>No</em>, she thinks, he told her to keep it. He smiled and said it looked better on her… Sofie’s head spins, she swallows, her throat dry and scratchy from the night before.</p><p>She has no idea what to say.</p><p>Text.</p><p><em>Whatever</em>.</p><p>She can’t believe she sent him a <em>video</em>— can’t believe that her drunk-self somehow thought sending a one—<em>two-night— </em>stand a drunk video of her dancing was <em>somehow</em> a fucking good idea.</p><p>She quickly scrolls through her messages from the night before, from Sara and Liam where they all took videos and photos, shared them with each other; most of them on Liam’s account, where she flicks to just to see the damage from the night before.</p><p>It’s not as bad as she was worried it would be, she remembers nearly all of it— and she doesn’t look <em>bad</em> at least, (<em>thank God</em>) and it’s mostly just dancing… but <em>seriously</em>,<em> Drunk-Sofie, why would you send him that video?</em></p><p>She feels stupid, looking at the message beneath the video, wondering if he even remembers asking her that question at all.</p><p>But it’s useless now, isn’t it? She did message him, she sent him a <em>video</em> and he…  he <em>responded.</em></p><p>
  <em>Drinking girl. Dancing girl. Hat thief. It’s quite the list.</em>
</p><p>Her thumb hesitates over the little heart underneath his message. Knowing as soon as she likes it, he’ll know she read his message. That she should respond. That she’s, you know, staring at her phone, hungover and trying to figure out what to say while squeezed between her two best friends on a bed after a night of drinking.</p><p>Okay. Maybe he won’t know like<em>, all of that</em>, but he’ll know she’s <em>read </em>his message.</p><p> </p><p>She likes his message. The little red heart pops up.</p><p> </p><p>Her heart pounds. She has no idea what to text back.</p><p> </p><p>He messages first.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Should I ask how drunk you were?</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>She shoves off the bed again, ignoring Sara’s grumbles and Liam’s muttered <em>the fuck, Sof—</em>heading for her bathroom, shutting the door and leaning against the sink, her phone clutched in her hand, staring at the texts.</p><p>He thinks it was a drunk text— it <em>was</em> a drunk text. Is he giving her an out? Does she want an out?</p><p>She thinks she’s sweating; her heart pounds, shivering in the cold tiled bathroom.</p><p><em>Be cool, Sofie,</em> she thinks, <em>be cool. Calm down. Play it cool.</em></p><p>How is she going to be cool? She <em>drunk texted him.</em></p><p>Sofie puts her phone down and scrubs her hands over her sleep-shorts, over the goosebumps on her legs, a cold sweat that makes her feel like she’s sticky and too hot while somehow also freezing and about to shake apart with nerves.</p><p><em>Calm down,</em> she tells herself again, blowing out a breath and picking up her phone again, thinking about New York and running with him, about making him laugh, about how it felt to make him laugh—</p><p>She can totally be cool.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>How do I know this is really you?</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>It takes a long minute before he messages back, Sofie barely blinks. She’s pretty sure she never felt <em>less</em> fucking cool.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>You messaged me, Sofie.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>Yeah, but don’t famous people always have people to run their social media?</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>How would I know about the hat? </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>And I run my own accounts.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>Maybe you’re just some very thorough assistant who catalogues all of mister cavill's hat collection.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>…You’re fucking with me. </em></strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong><em>Alright. I’ll play.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>It’s only a second later a picture comes through, and it <em>is</em> him, in what looks like the fucking <em>desert</em>. But he’s a bit tanned and his hair is like, shiny and perfect and even though he’s squinting a bit into the camera he looks—</p><p>He looks <em>good.</em> Sofie’s pretty sure she whimpers a little <em>oh no.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Your turn.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie blinks. <em>Like that’s fucking happening,</em> she thinks, glancing over her shoulder at herself in the mirror… her hair wild and fraying out of a bun, make-up smudged beneath her lashes…</p><p>She sinks to the floor, shivering as the cold-tiled floor spreads goosebumps over her skin; but there’s a tremble in her that’s more about her nerves than about the cold.</p><p>She snaps a pic of her legs, from her knees to her chipped-pink nail-polished toes.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Happy?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Very. How’d you know I’m into feet?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p><em>Oh my god, </em>she thinks, but another message comes through before she can reply.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong><em>I’m joking, not into feet. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Giving me all sorts of stuff to sell to the fan club. They’re going to love me.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Funny. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>So is liking feet.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I feel like there’s some kink shaming going on here, Sofie.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Some kinks deserved to be shamed. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Like feet and furries.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Furries? What’s that?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>“<em>Shit</em>,” Sofie breathes out, because why did she type that, how is she going to explain— and how she knows— how <em>doesn’t he know—</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>You’re joking right? </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>No, I really think you should explain it to me. I don’t want to be behind on the lingo. That would be embarrassing.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>You’re totally fucking with me.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I would never. I’m a gentleman.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>You’re mean is what you are.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I’d really love to hear your explanation. Give it a go.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Maybe I’ll look up some and send you some examples? You down for that?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I feel like I might not be, truthfully.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie laughs, breathy and low.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong><em>I feel like you might be a chicken, Cavill. Where’s your sense of adventure?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Thriving outside the realm of animal suits, I assure you, Miss Miller.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie laughs, pushing her hand over her mouth and trying to stifle it. Liking his message before typing out a quick <em>haha</em>.</p><p>The cursor blinks at her, and for a minute, Sofie doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t want to stop texting, doesn’t want to… to lose talking to him again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>So… why are you in the desert?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>In Nevada for a photoshoot.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Another picture comes through, and it’s his feet this time, or not his feet, dusty black jeans and heavy black boots… and a big black and white dog lounging right against his thighs.</p><p><em>Cute dog, </em>she texts, adding a smiling emoji. <em>What’s his name? (</em>Like she hasn’t creeped his profile and might, <em>maybe</em>, sort of already know.<em>)</em></p><p><em>This is Kal, </em>Henry types back before another picture comes through of the big dog.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong><em>American Akita, also known as Bear, and sometimes, Boy </em>and <em>You Big Oaf.</em></strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie grins. <em>That’s quite the list of names.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong><em>It is. Shoot’s starting, Sofie, can I text you later?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I did text you first you know.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Drunk text. Doesn’t count the same.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Sofie smiles, biting her lip to hold it in, feeling stupid and bubbly and still full of that weird, cold, nervous tremble.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Okay, sure. Yes.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Great. Talk to you soon, Sofie.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>She stares at the message, she kind of wants to tease him about using her name in text-form, because it’s sort of pointless, isn’t it? They’re in each others’ messages. But she thinks she might find it kind of cute instead, which… <em>ugh,</em> she drops her head back against the cabinet below her sink, pointing her toes and then easing them, drawing her legs up to her chest and hugging them. She pulls in a long breath before letting it out again, dropping her head against her knees.</p><p>Her phone vibrates, Sofie glances down</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>henrycavill sent you a photo</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Smiling, Sofie flicks the screen open to a picture of Kal, dog-smiling up into the camera, in a stretch of shadow that Sofie can only assume is Henry-shaped.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong><em>Kal says bye, too.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p><em>What a loser,</em> she thinks, but grins at the screen anyway and likes the photo.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(And she definitely saves the pictures.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>               </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “How the fuck are you up so early,” Liam huffs, sinking onto the kitchen stool and stealing her coffee. He pulls a face, looking into the cup. “And you went out to get coffee— from our <em>work.</em>”</p><p>Sofie shrugs, her hand resting over her phone like there’s something incriminating in it. Which there is, but like, not right <em>now.</em></p><p>“It’s like two minutes around the corner,” she shrugs, pulling out the waffles and bacon from the oven and setting them on the kitchen island. “And I don’t know. I woke up and had to pee and then I couldn’t fall back asleep.”</p><p>He sends her a doubtful look, but it morphs into an appreciative one and then into a chipmunk-esque one as he takes a too-large bite out of one the waffles. “Yr’fr’given,” he says around the bite. “S’rup?”</p><p>“What am I being forgiven for?” she asks and slides the syrup towards him. Taking her own waffles and reaching for the butter.</p><p>He points a finger at her, as he swallows. “Deprived me of my hangover cuddle buddy, you did.”</p><p>Sofie rolls her eyes. “Right. Where was Sara, exactly?”</p><p>“Wouldn’t come up the bed.”</p><p>She snorts. “To be honest, Lee, that sounds like a you problem.”</p><p>He pulls a face, flicking a piece of bacon at her. “I’ll make it a <em>you</em> problem.”</p><p>“No fighting,” Sara mumbles, wobbling into the kitchen and taking the stool next to Sofie. “Why were you up so early? And what’s up with the breakfast.”</p><p>Liam makes a face at her, his hand lifting, palm up like, <em>see? Exactly.</em></p><p>“I was up, I’m in a good mood, I don’t know. And waffles and bacon are like, top-tier hangover food. Didn’t feel like waiting for you guys to get up to go out for food.”</p><p>“I think eggs should be in there somewhere, or like, more grease,” Sara says, but still piles her plate with bacon and waffles.</p><p>“I think you know where the fridge is,” Sofie shoots back. “I’m feeling very attacked right now.”</p><p>“That’s what you get for not being normal and staying in bed like the rest of us mere mortals after a night of way too much drinking. And who were you texting, anyway?”</p><p>“What?” Sofie asks, swallowing a piece of bacon too quickly and having to choke it down. “I wasn’t.”</p><p>Sara frowns. “I swear I saw you…” she shrugs. “Maybe I was drunk-dreaming.”</p><p><em>Probably, </em>Sofie agrees and nudges her phone closer to her plate, glancing at the dark screen. “I just couldn’t sleep and I was starving. So you know. Breakfast.”</p><p>Sara nudges her thigh. “That’s why you’re my best friend.”</p><p>“Excuse <em>you,</em>” Liam says, voice tilting higher with fake-offence.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                <em>Nevada,</em> she thinks, scrolling back through the messages from the morning. <em>Which means he’s still in America, and not…</em> well, wherever he lives, she isn’t even sure. It sounds stupid thinking now, that she’s assuming his accent means he must live in Britain. Or the UK? She isn’t sure she knows the difference.</p><p> She opens her browser and types in Nevada, which is on the other side of the country, but is, she thinks, relatively closer than the UK. Britain. <em>Whatever</em>.</p><p>She exits the screen before she lets herself really think about the likelihood of him like… visiting her here, or them meeting up because she doesn’t really have that kind of cash to just drop on travelling across the country and that’s—</p><p><em>Crazy</em>, just crazy to even think about. So, she’s not going to.</p><p>
  <em>At all.</em>
</p><p>(Okay, she does a little bit, while the three of them all still lazing about on her bed, none of them have moved farther than a shower and a change of clothes and venturing downstairs for food or once, to the store for Gatorade because Liam was convinced he was going to die without it.)</p><p>“I’m crashing here tonight,” Liam says from the floor. “And I’m ordering a pizza. Two pizzas. And probably a calzone.”</p><p>Sofie flicks back into Henry’s Instagram profile, scrolling through his pictures even though she’s sure she’s seen them all now. “One of those better be for us.”</p><p>Liam makes a noise in his throat that Sofie knows is a yes; she stretches out her legs, rolling her sock-covered feet and flips to her own account, wondering absently if he went through her pictures—</p><p><em>Oh God</em>, she thinks, scrolling through them and seeing how many stupid pics she posts of the three of them, trying to tell herself she doesn’t care but when she lands on he one of them with their hoodie strings tied together she lets her phone plop against her chest and has to cover her face with her hands, biting back a groan.</p><p>Her phone buzzes on her chest and the text notification pops up, but it takes her a minute to fully realise the name, that he’s texting her and it’s not through Instagram this time.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>So how drunk were you last night? </em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie cringes, hoping he doesn’t think that she’s some wild party-girl.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Not that drunk. I’m just a light-weight. I don’t drink much really.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Well to be fair, you’re pretty small, I imagine it doesn’t take much. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>It makes drinking nights much cheaper.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I wish. Don’t think drinking’s been cheap for me since before I was legally allowed to drink.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>So we should have a drink off, that’s what you’re saying?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Only if you’d like to lose.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I feel like that’s a lot of assuming you’re doing there. Maybe I’m trying to fake you out. Get you complacent before destroying you. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Let’s recap:</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Sofie: I’m a lightweight. Henry: I’m not.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Sofie: no wait, I’m super tough even though I call myself a chihuahua.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Huh. Wonder what the truth is?</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie bites her cheek to stop from smiling, glancing up to make sure Sara isn’t watching her. But she’s still watching the movie absently while scrolling through Instagram on her phone.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>You’re very not funny.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Been told I’m hilarious, actually.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Don’t they have like ego fluffers for you guys? I bet it was one of them, wasn’t it? </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Oh mister cavill, ur just the funniest man alive.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Ego fluffers. That’s a new one. I’ll have to check to see if they hired my mum. I’m worried now.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie laughs, she can’t keep it in. Sara glances over her shoulder with a curious look on her face. Sofie shakes her head, brushing it off as a funny text from a co-worker; thankful that Liam’s zoned out on the floor while he orders their pizzas and doesn’t hear her.</p><p>Sending a sad-face emoji, she adds:</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>That’s rough. Your own mother. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Fame changes everyone.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Don’t lie though, I bet you laughed.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>You will literally never know. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>How was the photoshoot?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Ah, she changes the subject. Definitely laughed.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie bites her cheek, shaking her head and sending an eye roll emoji.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>It was fine. Took a bit longer than I thought it would, but I got to ride a pretty great bike, so I won’t complain. And all the crew there were nice, which always makes these things more enjoyable.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>A bike?</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>A picture comes through instead of an answer, a shot of him on a motorcycle, not a <em>bike</em> like Sofie was picturing. Kal is beside him, his big paws on Henry’s thigh, tilting up to stick his head under Henry’s arm on the motorcycle’s handlebar like he can climb up and ride there.</p><p>Sofie smiles, texting back a quick <em>cute, </em>before she spends a not-so-quick minute staring at the man on the motorcycle instead of the dog… and trying not to just roll over and bury her face in her pillow while making noises like she’s <em>dying</em> because he looks <em>good</em> and it’s not <em>fair.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Are they not always enjoyable?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Photoshoots, I mean?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Sometimes they can be a bit… well, you should try staring off into space and pretending to be brooding or something. Or intense. Or virile, I think someone said once.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p><em>Virile, </em>Sofie texts, biting back a laugh. <em>That’s terrible.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong><em>It is what it is. Acting is easier than these things, at least there’s a story, a character to play, you know? Photoshoots are a bit… well, you feel a bit silly, really. Doing hundred miles stares, or looking virile for a camera. Come out feeling like a bit of a prick sometimes.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>But never mind that. How was your day?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Sofie winces, because she’s lying boneless on her bed, where she’s spent most of her day after breakfast, changing into sleep shorts and a hoodie as the night when on and Liam and Sara decided to stay.</p><p>She has no idea what to tell him, so instead, she snaps a photo.</p><p>It’s just of her room and of her own legs stretched out down the bed, but there’s also the back of Sara’s head just in the frame, where she’s lying on her stomach, facing the movie and the little blurry glow of the television, where Brenden Fraser and Rachael Weiss yell at each other in an Egyptian hotel room.</p><p>Sofie draws a little arrow towards Sara and another down to the floor at the foot of the bed where Liam is and labels them. <em>Liam. Sara.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>About to order a pizza while we watch the Mummy. It’s a lazy day, don’t judge. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>And someone says they aren’t hungover. </strong>
  </p>
  <p><em>I said I was a </em>LITTLE<em> hungover. Like a little bit. A smidge. Barely.</em></p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Sure thing, Sofie. It’s very obvious now. I was a drunk text, wasn’t I. A continental booty call.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Sofie presses her lips together to not laugh, scrunching her face and turning it into her pillow.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>A continental booty call??? How are you even. Who says that??</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Also no! Drunk-Sofie thought it was hilarious because you know, drunk. But Sober-Sofie understands things better. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>And also that video was very obviously not even taken by me. so.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>When he doesn’t respond right away, and all Sofie can look at is the tongue-out emoji she sent… she bites her cheek, reading up through the texts and wondering if she said something stupid—</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong><em>And what does Sober-Sofie understand?</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p><em>Oh,</em> Sofie thinks, and then <em>what?</em> And then, <em>shit.</em></p><p>The cursor blinks, Sofie stares at it, feeling her pulse ticking up, her heart rate beating louder in her ears.</p><p>
  <em>That New York was a one-time thing. Right? That you’re so far out of my league it isn’t funny. That I don’t even know why you’re texting me right now. That I thought it was obvious I didn’t want you to leave that morning, but you did anyway. Even though I know I didn’t ask you to stay. I wanted to. I should have. But—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But I think New York was a dream, and I‘ve spent the last three weeks not even sure it really happened.</em>
</p><p>But she doesn’t type any of that, and she isn’t sure if she’s ready for the possibility of him saying that New York really was just a one-off. That she’s something that <em>happened</em>, past-tense, once was, never again.</p><p>That Portland, Maine—and the girl who lives there— is just too far out of the realm of Hollywood to make it worthwhile.</p><p>She wants to tell him that she has no idea what she’s doing, no idea what <em>this is; </em>no idea if he wants—well, <em>anything</em> from her at all.</p><p>But instead, she types:</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>That friends don’t send friends badly edited and blurry drunk videos, Cavill. Come on now, keep up. Production quality should have been much higher.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>So I should expect Sober-Sofie to send me more videos of her dancing, then?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Sofie’s heart skips, just a little. Does that mean he wants her to text him more? Permission to<em>… what, </em>she thinks<em>, be friends? More than friends? </em>Why did she say friends at all.<em> You’re so stupid, Sofie. </em></p><p>She startles again when Liam comes back, carrying the pizzas and bringing the warm, gooey smell of hot pizza into the room.</p><p>Her stomach grumbles.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>If you would like Sober-Sofie too?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I would. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Sofie hides her smile in the bunched-up neck of her hoodie.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Careful what you ask for.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I know what I’m about.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>With a grin, Sofie gives into Liam’s nudges, telling her to <em>budge up,</em> and make room for him on the bed. She slides over, tucking herself into her pillows and leaning against the headboard with her knees drawn up, not caring about the pizza or the rumbling in her stomach.</p><p>“Aren’t you eating?” Sara asks, frowning at her as she grabs a slice.</p><p>“In a sec,” she says, fluffing her hand. “I’m just… just one sec.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Any plans for your night?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Have to head to bed, unfortunately. I have an annoyingly early flight to LA tomorrow and well, someone kept me up last night.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Sofie’s heart plummets. Images pop up as quickly as her stomach rolls, images of him in her mind surging— over someone, <em>in</em> someone, hands on those shoulders, or his mouth on a neck or that sound he made when he came—</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><strong> <em>See, I got this message from this cute girl I haven’t seen in three weeks, at almost 1 am. And at first, I wasn’t sure what to say to her because three weeks is a long time to </em> </strong> <strong><em>go without texting someone and maybe it was just a drunk text, right?</em> </strong></p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Maybe she didn’t really mean to.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Sofie’s pretty sure her heart skips, rises in her chest and double-times as she waits for more.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong><em>But then, I’d been thinking about this girl a lot.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie gives in to the feeling that bubbles to life inside of her, grinning and dropping her head to her knees to hide it, scrunching her eyes shut; toes curling into her duvet until her phone vibrates again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong><em>And it took me a long time to figure out how to text this girl back, seeing as I think I messed up not texting her sooner. And this would be the second time she’s been the one to make the first move. Maybe even the third.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>She bites her cheek, something building in her throat that’s half a laugh and something half caught up, tangled up in pure fucking <em>relief.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong><em>You know what I’m saying?</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p><em>Yeah,</em> she types back. <em>I think so.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong><em>Talk tomorrow?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Yes. When’s your flight?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>530</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>You should really get to bed then.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I should. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>You should take another look at the timestamps on those messages. I think you’ll get a good laugh out of it.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Have a good night with your friends, Sofie.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Goodnight.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>                Sofie slips off her bed and into her bathroom, her whole body feeling like jello, like bubbles, like something about to <em>burst; </em>shutting the door and pulling her hoodie over her face, she grins into it, biting back the scream, the laugh, the sounds that want to break out of her chest; her whole body fucking <em>lit-up.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>2:55 am</p><p>
  <em>Drinking girl. Dancing girl. Hat thief. It’s quite the list.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>probably be some skype shit next chapter. cause you know. that's more exciting than text. imo. and like funner.</p><p>(Also let me know if the text format doesn't work, or is confusing, I went back and forth on using names each time. Hopefully the bold/not bold works )</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm so sorry for how long this took, and I'm so sorry this still isn't the most exciting chapter, but the next one should be better and...yeah, I hope you guys are still here for this, despite it being not the most exciting part of the story....</p><p>Anyway, thanks for all the messages and comments during this unfortunately unplanned mini hiatus that this fic took and I hope you guys enjoy the new chapter anyway. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sofie’s teeth sink into the meat of his shoulder, her teeth a dull point of pain that sparks beneath the feeling of being buried inside of her; of every clench of her cunt around his cock, that tensing, pulling heat that leaves him desperate to push deeper and fuck her harder, to leave her… as <em>fucked-up</em> as he feels in the moment.</p><p>He holds himself back, his restraint clenched in his molars, jaw tense and teeth clamped, breathing too hard, trying to keep himself slow and steady and erase that tremble in her body, that unmissable wince, that scrunch of her face as his cock stretches her open; as she tries to take him without him fingering her, eating her out, working her open first.</p><p>He’s not a <em>small </em>man, he knows, and he does his best to make sure it’s enjoyable for whoever he’s with—but it’s hard, so hard not to move; every push inside of her is sweeter than the last. Every slow, sinking push is half torture, half fucking <em>perfect.</em></p><p>Her lips slide up his neck, over the stubble on his jaw, slide soft and wet and warm over his mouth.</p><p><em>Please, </em>she chokes out, blinking at him, her lashes all clumped and shiny, her mouth all plumped-up and hot against his.</p><p><em>C’mon,</em> she whines, her fingertips sinking deeper into his shoulders, like she’s trying to make him understand what she wants without words, (and he wants to tell her that it’s <em>fine</em>, it’s good, it’s better than <em>good— </em>that she doesn’t need to take him hard and deep every time… that she’ll be sore if he goes too hard, that he saw her face last night with just three of his fingers inside of her, saw it again when he sunk inside of her that first time two days ago, and <em>again</em>, just minutes ago…)</p><p>But she blinks, breathes out and the <em>please,</em> sits in his ears— her fingertips on his shoulders an urging, encouraging bruise…</p><p><em>C’mon,</em> she whines.</p><p>And his restraint, already nothing more than a thread—</p><p> </p><p><em>snaps</em>—</p><p> </p><p>His mouth hits hers as he pushes her harder into the wall, chases that sweet tongue, those soft lips even as his body chases that need to be as deep inside of her as he can.</p><p>There’s no finesse to it. No skill. It’s almost desperate. Almost embarrassing. His hand squeaks on the tile, his hips knock into hers, his cock roots inside of her and there’s nothing left but chasing that feeling, that tensing, gripping clench of her cunt around him, and those noises that break out of her, louder and louder as her mouth breaks away from his—</p><p>He wants more of those sounds, wants her boneless against him, spread open, stretched out around him, filled up on every thrust that presses her harder into the slippery shower wall. He presses his body into hers, feeling her tremble, tense, squirm against him as he sinks inside of her again and again and again—</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                <em>G-god—</em></p><p>Sofie cries out in his memories, nearly drowned out by the shower, by the thump of his heartbeat in his ears as his cock pulses in his fist and splatters the shower wall. He breathes out, his jaw clenched, his forehead sliding against the slippery wet of his forearm, braced on the tile; his head full of the memory of her cunt gripping him, instead of the reality of his fist sliding over the pulsing, slowly-softening thick of his cock in his hand.</p><p><em>Jesus,</em> he thinks, breathing in and out in slow breaths, letting Sofie linger in his mind a few more moments before he pushes away from the wall and lets the hot water peel off the drips of his cum still sliding down the wall, (and the memory of her, all those moments caught in his brain.)</p><p>“Just a bit pathetic,” he mutters into the steamy air, angling the showerhead to make sure there’s no trace of his cum left on the tiled wall… Lord knows that would end up in some sort of rag.</p><p>
  <em>Henry Cavill Leaves Lusty Trail at Vegas Hotel. Full Story On Page Six.</em>
</p><p>He snorts, shaking his head at himself before grabbing the soap to finish up his shower and get his day started.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                It’s still dark when he checks out of the hotel in Vegas, a shiny black SUV with a cool, dark interior already idling on the curb. It always feels strange operating this early in the morning, like he’s removed from reality a little bit; like the world hasn’t really started yet.</p><p>He tries not to think about Sofie, (or his shower this morning,) telling himself it’s not written on his forehead (or his hand,) that he jerked off in the shower thinking about a hook-up from almost a month ago.</p><p>There’s nothing wrong with a bit of fantasy. (<em>And</em>, he thinks, isn’t it better to use real-life, to bring up a memory, rather than bringing up a bit of porn to get off too?)</p><p>He rolls his head back against the seat and pushes out a breath; it’s a short ride to the airport, the sunrise glows at the horizon in a hazy tint of growing blue and yellow. Kal pads alongside him as they check into the airport, as they detour around the main check-in and through the private gate to the small plane waiting for them.</p><p>His assistant shoots off an email before they board, double-checking his arrival time with the hotel in LA. Sometimes he wishes he’d kept his house there, or switched it for an apartment, but he never spends more than a few days in LA and it always felt like wasted money, owning another place he never spent much time in. A vacation home, he can justify, an expensive LA home he’d never spend time in?</p><p>Not so much.</p><p>There’s a coffee waiting for him on board; the sun crawls a little higher along the horizon, and he watches it rise as they fly over the west coast.</p><p>Kal falls asleep a few minutes in, Henry tries not to be jealous and strokes his hand over the crown of the Akita’s head absently, a weird anxiousness in his stomach he tries not to focus on because he’s pretty sure it’s wrapped up in texting a girl that’s currently on the exact opposite side of the country.</p><p><em>Can’t text her yet, anyway,</em> he tells himself, even though he scrolls back over their conversation and his own… too forward? Too honest? Too desperate? Admittance that he’s been thinking about her.</p><p><em>Why the fuck did you point out the timestamps, </em>he asks himself, <em>she sent you a drunk text, not a request to go steady.</em></p><p><em>Go steady,</em> he thinks and drops his head back against the seat, biting back a groan at himself and closing his eyes. <em>What is this, 1950?</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                With his luggage still sitting at the end of the bed and Kal lounging in the LA sunrise spilling in from the window, Henry tugs on workout clothes, glancing at the clock, feeling like it should be later than the 7 am that it is.</p><p>His phone taunts him from the bedside table like it’s laughing at him for the amount of time he keeps wasting trying to figure out what to (and if he even <em>should</em>) text her.</p><p>He thinks he might be better at the whole… <em>face-to-face</em> thing rather than the whole <em>texting</em> thing.</p><p>Not that he’s bad at it, exactly, but he tends to over-analyze every word and how the other person might take it. Is <em>good morning</em> too boring? Is <em>hey</em>, <em>how are you</em> too typical? Where does the conversation go from there? He doesn’t want to talk about the weather with her, doesn’t want her to think he can’t… carry a conversation? Entertain her? Provide a stimulating encounter outside of the bedroom?</p><p>He isn’t sure.</p><p><em>It’ll be easier once you start,</em> he tells himself, which he thinks might be true; yesterday the conversation, even broken apart by his schedule, came easy enough once he breached that first text. Sofie is… easy to talk to in a way he’s surprised by. Or maybe, <em>was</em> surprised by would be more true, because he thought the same thing even before he got her into bed. Or against a wall.</p><p>Which truthfully, might be part of the reason he hasn’t been able to let the idea of her go. It’s not those little black-lace panties of hers he still has, or the memory of her beneath him (even though it’s <em>definitely </em>part of it) but how <em>easy</em> it was to talk to her. To switch so easily from talking to laughing to wanting to fuck her in the span of a few seconds.</p><p>He isn’t sure what it says about him that he isn’t sure if he’s had that before. Not something that came so… <em>easy</em>.</p><p>He’s pretty sure <em>easy</em> is starting to lose meaning with him thinking it so much. <em>Easy easy easy.</em></p><p>Fucking stupid word.</p><p>He huffs at himself, downing the last of his almost-too-cold coffee given to him by the front desk when he arrived; grabbing Kal’s leash out of the front pocket of his bag, the Akita’s ears perk and he pushes up from the floor, his tail already wagging.</p><p>It’s still early, but he remembers Sofie saying (in those <em>easy</em> moments that second night, his cum still sticky on her skin between one round and the next) that she often gets up early, but he isn’t sure if she was just <em>saying</em> that because he had asked her to go running with him at the crack of dawn or if it is really <em>true</em> for how she really is in her own life in Maine.</p><p>He glances at the clock on the hotel bedside table, it glows a red <em>7:06</em> and he figures, even if she’s sleeping, she can get the text when she wakes up and then… well, he guesses he’ll know if yesterday’s conversation was really her just dealing with the fact she drunk-texted the guy she slept with three weeks ago and hasn’t spoken to since texted her back… who also came back into her life with a full-on declaration of how much he’s been thinking about her(and he’s going to blame that one on lack of sleep; it wasn’t the smoothest he’s ever been) or if she genuinely has any interest in talking to him and seeing if… if anything can even happen between them again.</p><p>Can it?</p><p>The doubts crawl in, all the reasons he had for not texting her in the weeks since New York, swell up in his head as he heads out of his room and into the hotel hallway, Kal beside him, his tail wagging furiously, pulling on his leash.</p><p>“At least one of us knows what he wants, huh?” he mutters to Kal, who <em>whuffs</em> lightly, eager to get going, and oblivious to Henry’s thoughts and distracted morning.</p><p>He wonders if he’s made a mistake, if he should have left it all well enough alone. That he had his reasons, his <em>facts</em>, really, for not reaching out; that none of them have changed in the last twenty-four hours… he wonders if he’d be so hesitant if she was older. If she lived closer. If there wasn’t such a difference between twenty-one and thirty-four. If there weren’t so many miles between LA, Florida, London, fucking <em>Jersey</em>— and <em>Maine</em>.</p><p>But hindsight is twenty-twenty, and he couldn’t just show up on her doorstep and ask her to go another round or two, could he? He can’t just go back to New York and stay a little longer on that last morning.</p><p>Regardless, if she regrets yesterday or the text the night before or sending him the video to begin with… he supposes today he’ll know.</p><p>One way or the other.</p><p><em>And</em>, he thinks, as he heads out of his hotel, out into the early LA morning and towards the beach, she was— she <em>is</em> fun to talk to, even if nothing else could happen between them, even if nothing more evolves between them… even if he never sleeps with her again—</p><p>Sofie is…</p><p> </p><p>Someone he thinks he’d like to know better.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He snaps a photo of the sun over the ocean, and Kal running in the sand ahead of him; <em>sunrise and sweaty-times,</em> he captions it, not giving himself time to doubt it before hitting send.</p><p><em>Not the most creative first text,</em> he thinks, but it’s better than just a <em>good morning, </em>isn’t it?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>My girl's name is Senora<br/>I tell you, friends, I adore her</em>
</p><p> </p><p>                Sofie bops her head, wiping her wrist against her temple, trying to move a frayed-loose strand of hair off of her forehead as she mixes the scones pulling together in the kitchen of her work, working the dough into shape as she moves a little to the beat of <em>Jump in the Line.</em></p><p>(If her co-workers have been eyeing her all morning, all her smiles and happiness and unfailing good-mood, Sofie ignores them, because she woke up smiling with it, woke up giddy with it, <em>bubbling</em> with it and she doesn’t <em>care.</em>)</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Shake, shake, shake, Senora,<br/>Shake your body line, whoa!</em>
</p><p> </p><p>When her phone vibrates in the pocket of her apron, she debates not checking it only for a second— her shoulders rolling as she dances lamely in front of the counter while still watching the mix come into shape— when she remembers why she’s in a good mood at all.</p><p>Wiping her hands quickly on the hand towel on the counter, Sofie scrambles into her apron, fumbling her phone and leaving little dusty spots of flour on her screen as she swipes it open, that same feeling from this morning bubbling in her stomach at the sight of the notification on her screen.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Sunrise and sweaty-times.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie pushes her lips together, pushing out a breath and trying to slow the sudden uptick in her pulse as she looks at the picture he sent.</p><p><em>It’s just a photo,</em> she tells herself, <em>not even of him. Relax.</em></p><p>But it’s <em>his</em>, he texted her again, he reached out again and— and Sofie has no idea what to <em>do </em>with that, what to <em>say,</em> what to <em>text back—</em></p><p>How do you keep a conversation going with someone on the other side of the country? How do you keep talking to someone who has been to more places than you’ve ever even thought about? Who has like, the whole <em>world</em> at the tip of their fingers and they’re texting… <em>you</em>?</p><p>Sofie pushes out a breath, staring at the screen and wondering what the hell she was thinking. All those hours spent trying to <em>not</em> think about him, all those nights where she <em>did,</em> where she <em>hoped</em>, <em>wanted, wished</em> for him to reach out— what did she think was going to happen?</p><p>He’d just… show up for another round or two?</p><p>That she’d be his… his girlfriend?</p><p><em>Continental booty-call, </em>just like he said, whenever he was in America? Or just like… on the east coast?</p><p><em>Jesus,</em> she pushes out under her breath, tilting her head back and pulling in a few breaths. <em>Is that what I want? Is that what he wants?</em></p><p>
  <em>Does he have a west coast booty-call?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>South coast? What if it’s divided into sections, like upper east coast, lower west, south, way down south, Canada-North and then like—</em>
</p><p><em>Relax,</em> she tells herself,<em> don’t stress out over nothing. A few texts… a few pictures… who knows what he even wants. Maybe we should just be friends— maybe we should actually </em>start<em> with friends—</em></p><p>Nodding to herself, Sofie pulls in one more deep breath and holds it before letting it out again, bringing herself back down to Earth from wherever she was rocketing up into the stratosphere over one <em>text.</em></p><p>Opening her messages again, she tells herself to be cool, to be calm, to be <em>herself</em> because they got along well enough in person, didn’t they? He said he’d been<em> thinking</em> about her— and that’s… that’s like—</p><p> <em>Whoo-boy.</em></p><p>With the bubbly feeling back in her stomach, Sofie snaps a picture of Second Chapter’s small kitchen area, her flour-covered work surface and the scones waiting to be finished.</p><p><em>Flour-covered fun times, </em>she types out and hits send before she can second-guess herself.</p><p>He texts back almost immediately, and Sofie leans against the sink behind her, stealing a glance at the swinging door with its round window hole, to make sure she can’t see anyone… and no one can see her, smiling at her phone.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Are you a baking-girl, too?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Sort of? I mean… I can bake, yes. But this is for work. I’m at work right now.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Ah, my bad. I might have forgotten about the time change this morning. It’s only just after seven here and I thought you might still be sleeping. We can text later if you’d like.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Early riser, remember? I’ve been up for a while already, it’s ten here.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Right, three hours, isn’t it? I can’t believe I forgot. East Coast.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie chews her cheek, trying to think of what to say, how to keep him talking— keep him <em>wanting</em> to talk to her.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Yup. How was your flight? Busy?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Charter flight. That’s why it was so early, I’m here for some business with my management so they scheduled it all to coincide with a meeting.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>That’s like, a private plane? I think we’ve done that once before, one of my mother’s business trips that I went on, we took one. It was cool, kinda weird to be on a small plane. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>It’s definitely a different feeling than a regular flight. No fear of flying, then?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Nope, not really. I mean, everyone thinks about it a bit, I think? But I’m not terrified of it. You must be pretty used to flying, huh? From one coast to another?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Or I guess, more like one country to another.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Not a fan, to be honest. I’ve gotten better with it, but I do get nervous. Kal helps, I’ve had him trained up a bit as a companion dog, it’s amazing how much he can help with nerves.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie smiles to herself, she <em>likes</em> that he’s truthful about it, that he isn’t just saying how much he flies and how it’s nothing for him anymore.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>That’s awesome. I always wanted a dog but my mother… is not a fan.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>More of a cat person?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Nope, not a fan of cats either.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Goldfish, then?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>More like a pet rock.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Rocky Balboa.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He sends her a laughing emoji, Sofie grins, not even trying to hide it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>That’s terrible and hilarious.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I know. I lived a very deprived childhood.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>He sends a sad-face emoji.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Poor girl.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie smiles and shakes her head— and then jumps when the swinging door to the kitchen swings open and she stuffs her phone back into her apron, turning to the sink to wash her hands and look busy as her shift boss leans into the kitchen.</p><p>“Laura wants to take her break, you almost done with the scones?”</p><p>“Almost,” Sofie says, looking away from the door and ignoring the vibration of her phone in her pocket, even though she’s desperate to check it. “Give me like, three minutes.”</p><p>
  <strong>  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>  </strong>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sofie scrolls up through her messages, re-reading the sporadic messages and pictures they sent each other throughout her workday and his busy morning in LA. She pauses on a picture of him in the gym, sent while she was in the middle of a late-morning rush. She stares at it for longer than she probably should, before scrolling on.</p><p>“Sof-bee?” her mother’s voice slinks up the stairs, and Sofie sighs, rolling off her bed and heading out into the hallway to lean over the banister.</p><p>“Yeah?” she calls, watching as her mother pulls off her jacket, her hair fraying just a bit from her normally smooth looking bun. It’s a regular sight, the last of her mother’s seven days on. There’s a take-out bag at the foot of the stairs and Sofie’s stomach growls at the sight.</p><p>“I brought dinner. Come down and eat.”</p><p>Her phone vibrates in her hand, and she glances at it. Seeing the notification, his name pops up on her screen.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Just finished the first meeting, prepping for the one tomorrow. How was work?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I’m glad. Next one is with Netflix, right? </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Work was good, it’s a pretty quiet place most of the time. It’s really more like a library than a bookstore.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>She heads down the stairs, her socked-feet quiet on the old wood as her mother heads down the narrow town-home hallway towards the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em>Y<strong>e</strong></em> <strong><em>s, it’s with Netflix. For a new show I’d really like to be part of.</em> </strong></p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Any plans for your night?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>About to have dinner, you?</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>She pockets her phone in her hoodie pocket before she turns into the kitchen and heads to the cabinets for some water glasses and a wine glass for her mother. “Red or white?”</p><p>“White,” her mother says, pulling out the takeout containers from the crinkling paper bag. Sofie’s stomach grumbles again as the smell of Chinese food gets stronger.</p><p>The wine glugs into the glass and Sofie slides it across the island to her mother’s seat, before filling up two glasses of water and slipping into another stool and pulling out her phone.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>About to have my third meal of the day. So pre-dinner.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>A picture follows it, of a plastic container filled with what looks like chicken and veggies. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>That looks… exciting.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>She snaps a photo of her meal, the chopsticks resting on her plate, her eyes darting to her mother, who has her own phone in her hand, scrolling through her emails as she pushes a chopstick full of noodles into her mouth.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I’m infinitely jealous.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie sends a sad face.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Are all your meals like that?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Not always, it depends on what’s going on at the moment. Like I mentioned before, I’m bulking for muscle gain which means my meals have to pretty specific. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>and boring?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>And boring, yes. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>The life of a movie star, huh?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>The life of a movie star.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                 </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Not so much sun this morning, but it made my run a little easier!</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p> </p><p>He sends a photo of himself this time, the sky a little overcast as he finishes his morning cardio.</p><p>He gets a photo back almost instantly, his phone buzzing in his hand just as he’s about to pocket it and start heading to the gym he uses whenever he’s in LA.</p><p> Sofie’s name pops up on his screen and his lips twitch, something in his chest twinging when he thumbs open the message and her face fills his screen. She’s wearing his KC cap and holding her phone just above her head while pulling a face for the picture. She’s outside, it looks like, wearing the same jacket she wore running in Central Park, and he figures she’s just finished her run, her cheeks flushed the same way they were when they ran together.</p><p>There’s a little message underneath it and he can’t help but laugh.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>#hatthief</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He thinks about telling her that she’s not the only thief, but he isn’t sure there’s any good way to tell a girl that you might have stolen her underwear and you might still have it. <em>Like a creep.</em></p><p>He stares at her for longer than he probably should, at the way her nose scrunches, at the little bit of shine along the side of her neck from sweat—and doesn’t even try to lie to himself when he holds his thumb over the picture, saving it to his phone before texting her back.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Well, at least I know you didn’t sell it.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Surprisingly not a huge market for ballcaps supposedly worn by celebrities. Should’ve gotten you to sign it. Maybe taken a pic of it on your head, sold it as ‘once graced Superman’s head. Fresh sweat not included.’</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>He laughs, typing back:</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I bet you can find one on my Instagram. I’ve had that hat for a few years, actually. It is quite literally a Superman hat.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>…Now I feel bad. You’ve had it that long? Don’t you want it back?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>No. I didn’t mean it like that. I like it on you. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Honest, Sofie.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>What’s KC, anyway?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Really? And you call yourself an American.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>???</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Kansas City Chiefs. Great ol’ American Football.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Oh, haha. Yeah…. I’m not really a football person. Or a sport person, really.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Nothing? That also seems very un-American.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Single mom who’s a doctor. We didn’t spend a whole lot of time watching sports. More like learning how to say stupid long words while she studied. I mean, that’s kind of a sport? I’d kill it in a spelling bee.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p><em>Right</em>, he thinks, remembering Sofie talking about her mother being a doctor, that she was there for a conference in New York, which is why Sofie was there to begin with.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I’ll let you have it. It’s sport-adjacent. Mental strain instead of physical.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Thank you. Very generous.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>You’re very welcome. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>So never been to a game then? No sports at all?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>You sound so disappointed. I feel like I should lie and say I’m the biggest football fan ever, will you take me to superbowl?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Wait that just happened didn’t it. Is there a big baseball thing? </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>You better quit while you’re ahead. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Rude.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Not really into baseball. Now rugby… that’s a different story.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>One sec, gotta google rugby to pretend I know anything about it.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He laughs, shaking his head and calling Kal back to him so they can head to the gym. He clips on his leash before typing out another text.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I’ll sum it up for you: Rugby is football. But harder and better.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>…Don’t tell anyone I said that.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>You sound biased. I’m guessing you play?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I used to. Not as much as I’d like to anymore, unfortunately.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>His phone vibrates, another photo coming through but it looks like a screenshot of a website on her phone:</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>The shade.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>He laughs, texting back:</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Looking it up, huh? </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Yes, that’s it exactly. I’m going to have to educate you on it. First lesson: if you can’t play nice, play rugby.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>You know, I’m strangely not surprised that you play it.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Oh? Why’s that?</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>It takes a long two minutes for her answer to come through, and it leaves him torn between her message screen and watching where he’s going as he heads towards the gym.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em>I</em> <em> can’t type it.</em></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He frowns at his screen, typing back:</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Why not?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Because. It sounded better in my head. It won’t come across right in text.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>His eyebrows tilt, feeling his lips twitch at her honesty, (thinking about that girl in his hotel room, clutching her heels and stumbling out a thank you for her <em>orgasms, </em>the one who looked up at him and said, <em>I know this isn’t—I know I didn’t ask—but do you have a girlfriend?)</em> even as his mind tries to follow the thought paths that she might be taking. What she could be thinking.</p><p>
  <em>What’s not surprising about him and rugby?</em>
</p><p>But he comes up with nothing.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Well now I just really want to know.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Sux to be u</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Any plans for today?</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He huffs at the subject change.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Change of subject. Noticing a pattern here, Sofie.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>The gym now, another photoshoot after that.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>No pattern, no idea what ur talking about.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>You do a lot of those?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Photoshoots? Not really, they tend to come and go with films. Since I’ve got one coming out soon, I’m doing more of them.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Really spread that face around, huh?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Mission impossible, right?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Exactly. Until you’re absolutely sick of it.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>And yes, Mission Impossible.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Is it good?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>The movie? I think so. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>You’ll get to see me in all my moustached-glory.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>…I may have creeped your Insta a bit. It’s quite the look.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He smiles at that, the first real admittance that he wasn’t the only one looking for the other after New York… he’s just far easier to find on social media than she is.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>It took a while for me to warm up to it, spent a long time going, ‘why the fuck did I think this was a good idea to film with for months?’</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie sends a laughing emoji.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>I think you pull it off. I mean, I might have thought you were a creeper in the gym at first… but you know, I might’ve been swayed eventually.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>You mean offering moustache rides to cute girls in the gym isn’t a solid pick-up tactic? </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Damn.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Sofie sends another two laughing emojis.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Honestly. That’s terrible. I mean you can probably pull off a lot of things, but moustache rides?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I’m not sure anyone can pull that off.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>No, probably not… which is a good thing, I think.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>RIP moustachio’d Cavill.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>He grins, half of him so eager to push forward, to let the conversation slide into New York— to know for sure how she feels about their time spent together… but the other half of him doesn’t want to push, isn’t sure if he even <em>should.</em> He should be doing the responsible thing and let her forget about him—</p><p>But—</p><p><em>But she reached out first</em>, he thinks, she looked him up, sent him that message… and that has to count for something, doesn’t it?</p><p>He jogs up the steps towards the gym he uses in LA, the first brush of ice-cold air-con hitting him like a wall of ice.</p><p>He wants to ask her more about her work, about the boy that she works with, the one in so many of her Instagram photos… wants to make sure, to <em>know for sure</em> that he’s just a friend.</p><p>He just isn’t sure how to ask her that, though.</p><p>Not without just… showing up in Maine and asking her if she’s single and up for another round.</p><p>Which isn’t even an option, as far as he’s concerned.</p><p>Is it?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>RIP Moustache-Cavill.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Plans for the day? Are you always up this early for your run? </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Just work in a few hours, closing shift tonight. And it’s not that early, remember? It’s after ten.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Shit, yeah I forgot about the time change again.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>No, he knows that if another hook-up with her was what he wanted, if that was <em>all</em> this was… he would not have waited to text her during those long weeks since New York.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em>You think for someone who travels so much you</em> <em>’d be better this whole time zone thing.</em></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He huffs, biting back a smile and sending her an eye-roll emoji.</p><p>
  <strong>  </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>He pretty sure he’d settle for just being friends with her at this point.</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Favorite food?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Curry.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Gross. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Judge-y.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Yours?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Don’t laugh, but oatmeal. I literally could eat it every day. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Your favourite food cannot be oatmeal, Sofie. It has to be even a little unhealthy. That’s the rule.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I’ve never heard this rule. I disagree.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Rules are rules. Try again. Favourite meal?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Rude. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Pizza, then.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Boring.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <strong>  </strong>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Favourite book?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Little Women. Chronicles of Narnia? I can’t pick</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Tough choices, probably Lord of the Rings or Dune.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Ah those are good. Way to show me up. Favourite author?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Tolkien for sheer impressiveness of world-building.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Truth. Anne Carson. Unbelievable with words.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Not sure I know her. I’ll have to look her up.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>  </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Worst movie you’ve ever seen?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Man From Uncle. That guy who played the American spy… ugh. The worst.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>You think you’re funny, huh?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I’m a gift, Cavill.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Alright just locking up, text you when I’m home?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Do you always walk home this late?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>It’s like five minutes.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>It’s eleven-thirty there?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Getting better at the time zones, huh? Congrats.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Haha. Keep texting, Sofie. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>  </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <strong>  </strong>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Sofie. Text me back.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I’m fine, big guy. Other than some rain, there’s nothing going on here.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “Mornin’,” Sofie yawns, reaching for the glass container of oatmeal and unscrewing the lid before reaching for a bowl.</p><p>Her mother’s finger doesn’t stop moving on her phone, spearing another piece of strawberry with her fork. “A fundraiser is coming up at the hospital. I signed you up to volunteer.”</p><p>Sofie frowns, not because she minds volunteering, but for the <em>I signed you up…</em> without even asking. She scoops her oatmeal flakes into the bowl before adding a scoop of water. “What is it?”</p><p>“Family day, food trucks in the park, they’re looking for extra hands to help organize and assist with some patients.”</p><p>Sofie nods, remembering the ones they ran last summer. “Sure, I’ll bring Liam and Sara or something, it’ll be fun.”</p><p>Her mother sighs, her fork <em>clinking</em> lightly against her plate. “You don’t need to bring your friends everywhere, Sofie. Maybe this once we could be more… proactive. Connect more with people who could have an influence or, I don’t know, <em>inspire </em>some sort of future in you?”</p><p>Sofie’s hand pauses on the door to the microwave, her oatmeal bowl in her other hand, white-knuckled.</p><p>“Don’t think working at a food truck is going to <em>inspire</em> me too much, Mom. Unless you’d like me to be a chef.” The bowl clatters loudly on the glass tray in the microwave, she might’ve set it down a little hard; the cloudy water sloshes as she shuts the door… a <em>little </em>hard.</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s going to be all sorts of hospital staff and doctors there, it’s not just volunteers.”</p><p>“Liam’s great with people—”</p><p>“You’re enabling each other. His father is a district attorney for Godsake, and he’s working at a <em>coffee shop.</em>”</p><p>“<em>I’m</em> working at a coffee shop.”</p><p>“I’m <em>well-aware</em>, Sofie,” her mother pushes out a breath, the stool squeaking across the floor, Sofie hears her plate clatter into the sink along with her mug. She can’t bring herself to look, staring at her oatmeal going round and round in the microwave. “And for some reason, you think that’s a viable career option when you have the grades to get into medical school. You’re <em>good</em>, Sofie, better than—”</p><p>“<em>Mom</em>.”</p><p>“— working at some <em>library</em>-slash-coffee shop that barely turns a profit. What are you going to do, fill shelves when you’re thirty? Fifty?”</p><p>Sofie bites her tongue, her teeth clenched.</p><p>“Leave Liam and Sara behind, you can function outside of this co-dependent, mutually <em>un</em>beneficial relationship you have with your friends. Time to grow up a bit, Sof-Bee. You remember how hard I worked to get us out of where we were, don’t you? You can’t tell me you don’t want to do better than be some shelf-stocking-barista forever.”</p><p>“What if I don’t?” she pushes out through her too-tight jaw, watching the oatmeal turn.</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother huffs, her bare feet quiet on the kitchen floor as she walks away.</p><p>The microwave beeps, Sofie ignores it, turning on her heel and heading back upstairs, her appetite gone.</p><p> </p><p>               </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sofie’s bike spurs whir over the pavement as she turns down the next street, the wind whipping through her windbreaker. She tugs Henry’s cap lower, glancing up at the sky and hoping the rain holds off until later.</p><p>It’s only a short ride to the old apartment she grew up in, but somehow it feels like a completely different area. She slows to a stop and rolls her bike up to the door, grabbing her key from her pocket and awkwardly propping the door open to drag her bike in with her, rolling it down the little hallway to the elevator and the little nook beneath the stairs to lean it against the wall.</p><p>The stairs creak as she climbs them, up three flights and down the clean, but narrow and dimly lit hallway and lets herself into 314.</p><p>“Annie?” she calls, toeing off her sneakers and breathing in the smell of the place she’s pretty sure she spent more of her childhood than anywhere else.</p><p>“Oh, honey, you scared the devil out of me.” Annie’s wobbly voice comes from her soft, worn-pink chair by the window.</p><p>“Sorry,” Sofie laughs, propping herself on one wide arm of the chair and pressing her lips to the old woman’s soft, flowery-smelling cheek.</p><p>“What’s your mother done this time, hm?” she hums, catching Sofie’s hand in her soft ones and pressing one dry kiss to Sofie’s cheek in return. “Put her well-heeled foot in her mouth, has she?”</p><p>“What makes you think she done anything?” Sofie asks, wondering just how obvious her face is.</p><p>“Itty-bitty, you were here four days ago, about as morose as a wet weekend,” she says, patting Sofie’s hand. “About as sad as a little chubby boy who dropped his ice cream.”</p><p>Sofie bites her lip, trying not to laugh. “If I didn’t know better, Annie, I’d think you didn’t want me here,” Sofie sniffs, pulling her hand back and crossing her arms in a put-on huff.</p><p>The old woman tsks, shaking her head, her grey hair like a soft cloud on her head. “Don’t be dramatic, I can’t keep up with those theatrics of yours all the time. Tell me what your mother did this time. Unless you want to explain to me what had you so down in the mouth last visit, hm?”</p><p>Sofie shrugs, shifting off the arm of the chair and pushing to her feet. “Want some tea?”</p><p>Annie huffs, but nods, waving a shaky hand towards the kitchen. “Josh brought some new boxes when he dropped by on Saturday, there should be some new choices.”</p><p>Sofie heads into the kitchen, filling the kettle and opening the tea cupboard as Anne’s voice wobbles in behind her.</p><p> “And there’s some banana bread, eat some! You’re still a scrawny thing.”</p><p>With an eye roll, Sofie opens the fridge and grabs the plate with an icing-drizzled loaf on it and unwraps the multiple layers of clingwrap to unveil a sweet-smelling carrot cake. She laughs, “It’s carrot cake, Annie, not banana bread!”</p><p><em>Oh, that’s right, </em>she calls, <em>I remember now, he said Cal had made it for their girls, but he made too much.</em></p><p>Sofie shakes her head and laughs to herself as she slices off two pieces and slides them onto two plates, running her finger along the knife to gather up the extra sticky icing and licking it off her finger before setting the knife in the sink and carefully re-wrapping the carrot cake in the same many layers of cling-wrap.</p><p>The kettle whistles and Sofie pours the steaming water into two mugs, watching the tea bags stain the water. She leaves them to steep while she takes in the two plates of carrot cake, setting Anne’s on the little table near her right arm and sets her own plate on the floor.</p><p>When she returns with the tea, careful not to spill, she sinks down to her regular spot at Anne’s slipper-covered feet, leaning against the front of the wide sofa chair and close to the old woman’s stockinged legs.</p><p>Anne’s hand touches her cap-covered head. “What did our dear Katherine say, Sofie-darling?”</p><p>Sofie sighs, reaching for her cake and cutting into it with her fork. It’s soft and sweet and better than the one’s they’re told to make at work, she wonders if Cal would give her the recipe.</p><p>“Stocking shelves is like, a <em>crime</em>, Annie, did you know that?” Sofie says around another mouthful, trying to chew her irritation back, eating angrily and feeling more than a little ridiculous as her teeth clench on another angry chomp.</p><p><em>Is it?</em> Anne hums.</p><p>“It’s like… she won’t <em>listen</em> when I say I don’t know what I want to do, or <em>be</em>— or, I don’t know, I just… why would she want to pay to send me to medical school if I decide that that’s just— not what I want to be?”</p><p>“Because she wants the best for you,” Annie says, her hand playing with Sofie’s ponytail, running the strands through her fingers. “Mothers always want the best for their children.”</p><p>“And being a doctor is the best that I can be? The <em>only</em> best?”</p><p>“Being a doctor was the best for your mother, you can understand why she’d want you to have the same.”</p><p>Sofie huffs. “I feel like… I— It’s like math, Annie. It all makes sense to me, but it’s… it’s <em>boring—</em> and I know that’s terrible, I do, but—” she breaks off, mushing her cake with her fork a little, trying to figure out what to say. “I know I should want to save people, to <em>help</em> people—”</p><p>Annie snorts, tugging lightly on Sofie’s ponytail. “There are so many other ways to help people, Sofie-darling, you think medicine is the only one that matters?”</p><p>Sofie shrugs, watching the icing mix into the cake as she smashes another bit of her cake together. “To my mother it is.”</p><p>“Your mother was raised different, you know that. She worked hard, I won’t take that away from her, and you need to remember it, too. That’s why she is the way she is… she came from money, itty-bitty, and she went right back to it. There’s a security in it for her, and that matters more than a fair bit. What matters more to you, hm? What makes my girl happy?”</p><p>For a second, Sofie’s mind flashes to that split second of a moment… (his arms around her, the sound and taste of his laughter in her mouth before he kissed her…)</p><p>She shakes her head, shoving the mushed-up bit of cake into her mouth. “I don’t know.”</p><p>Annie pats her head. “You’ll figure it out. There’s not a person on this earth that could make you do something you didn’t really want to do. If your mother could get her well-styled head out of her behind for just a little while she could see it as well. You’ve always been a right stubborn little thing.”</p><p>Sofie doesn’t feel stubborn, she feels like she’s stuck, like she’s a little leaf stuck to her mother’s branch, swaying in the wind but not able to let go. Clinging on because she’s too unsure, too lost, too… afraid of hurting her mother to break her own stem and let the wind take her.</p><p>“You’ve got the whole world ahead of you, the whole world open to you. You could be anything, go anywhere… it’s a different time, so many choices out there, why not just give them all a chance, and see where you end up, hm? Whichever way the wind blows, there my Sofie goes.”</p><p>Sofie feels something tug in her chest, she remembers Annie saying it over the years, when she used to take Sofie to the park or the bookstore, or even here, in the apartment, when Sofie would re-enact scenes to books she’d read, or had read to her.</p><p>314 was her Narnia. And Annie was her wardrobe.</p><p>She isn’t sure when she got too scared to just… <em>go</em>.</p><p>“There’s a fundraiser coming up at the hospital, mom signed me up, but she doesn’t want me to bring Lee and Sara.”</p><p>“Oh, well, don’t bring them, hm? They have legs, don’t they?”</p><p>She laughs, dropping her head forward and pulling out her phone.</p><p>“Yeah,” she says. “They got two of them.”</p><p>“Between the two of them?” Anne says lightly, the smile in her voice obvious. “How <em>terrible</em>. I hope they manage to balance each other out.”</p><p>Sofie laughs, nudging Annie’s leg. “Haha.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Good morning, Sofie. </em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie smiles at her phone, biting her lip and looking at the picture of him standing on a balcony, the LA sunrise behind him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>I don’t have a nice picture to send back. It’s a rainy day here.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Ready for your Netflix meeting?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Rainy days can be nice. Depending on who you’re with.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>As ready as I can be, I don’t think they’re just going to pick me, of course, but I’m hoping my persistence will wear them down.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>He sends a smiling emoji and Sofie huffs a little laugh, but wonders at what he meant by ‘depending on who you’re with.’ She wonders if he’s curious what she’s doing, if he’s… wondering who she’s with? She isn’t sure how to explain Annie, so she decides to ignore it.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you. Will you let me know how it goes?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Of course.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>You run yet?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Bike ride. Visiting a friend this morning.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Am I interrupting?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>No, of course not.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>“So,” Annie says her finger tip-tapping on the rim of the cap on Sofie’s head. “Who’s the boy?”</p><p>“<em>What?</em>” Sofie chokes, dropping her phone in her lap. “There’s no <em>boy</em>.”</p><p><em>Mmhm, </em>Annie hums, and Sofie turns, looking at the older woman behind her.</p><p>“There’s <em>not</em>.”</p><p>Anne taps her cap again. “Of course not, itty-bitty. You’re just suddenly into football, hm?”</p><p>Sofie’s mouth opens and then shuts, turning back around shoving another piece of cake into her mouth. “It’s Lee’s.”</p><p>“Liam plays soccer.”</p><p>Sofie shoves another piece of cake in her mouth, mumbling around it. “He likes football, too.”</p><p>Annie hums, Sofie scowls at her carrot cake.</p><p>Her phone vibrates. She itches to check it.</p><p>She forks another piece of cake instead, as Annie gracefully changes the subject, leaving Sofie to stew in her own thoughts.</p><p><em>Not yet, </em>she thinks, not until there’s something more to say than<em>: we hooked-up weeks ago, I don’t know what I’m doing. We slept together in New York, Annie, and then he left. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I  have no idea what I’m doing. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>You up?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Just now, everything alright?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Wanna run together?</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He frowns at his phone even though his mind jumps to the idea of Sofie actually being in LA, (maybe rolling out of his bed, even. Or him rolling <em>over her</em> in bed.) but he knows she’s in Maine, they said goodnight barely eleven hours ago and she sent him a picture of her bed, her legs stretched out beneath a fluffy, white duvet.</p><p>He’d sent her one of his own hotel room, his last shake of the day in his hand and Kal’s head on his lap. The TV hadn’t even been on and he’d felt a bit ridiculous as soon as he’d realized it, that all he’d been doing was sitting in his hotel room talking to her and drinking his protein shake.</p><p>Though he couldn’t help but notice, after he’d looked over her picture again, that there was no blue-glow of a TV in hers, either.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>We could sync up the playlist, start at the same time, maybe? Maybe make a little bet? See who runs farther?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Still sore over losing, huh.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Still a cheater, huh?</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>He snorts. Pushing the button for the coffee machine to start and breathing in the first warm smell of it as it gurgles and drips into the mug.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>What’s the winner get?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>No idea. I just wanna whoop your ass.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Does being short make you angrier person? Or is it a chihuahua thing?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Afraid to lose, big guy? What would your fans say?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>That I was nice, letting the little girl win. Like when you play a game with a kid, you have to let them win sometimes, you know? It’s only fair. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Sofie sends a shocked emoji and then a picture comes through of her pouting angrily at the camera, captioned:</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>ur mean and I don’t know why I put up with u. #supermanisajerk</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He laughs, saving the picture (to definitely <em>not</em> look at later) and lifting the full mug of a coffee and taking a mouthful of it.  It’s almost too hot, but he swallows it anyway, already typing back:</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>No one will believe you :(</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Screenshots</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Easily faked.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>…</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I’ll cry.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>You’re a terrible liar, I don’t think you can do it.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Hey. I can totally lie.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>…Ehhh</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>What is this? Are you judging my acting mister big-shot actor-man? I can totally do it.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Take my word on it, Sofie. You’re not a great liar.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>??</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>You have to tell me why!</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He hesitates, not sure how to tell her that he saw her in that restaurant and knew there was something wrong. In the elevator, after, when she was trying to brush him off, when she was <em>fine—</em></p><p>He knew she wasn’t. Her face was… even after he kissed her and told her he <em>wasn’t that kind of guy,</em> he knew she doubted him; he could see it her face, the want to believe him, the want to brush it off like it didn’t matter—</p><p>Doing exactly what he’d been doing: telling himself that it was a one-night, one-time thing, that none of it mattered, that there was nothing more between them.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Ask me some other time. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>You can’t do that!</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>You did it to me the other day. The rugby thing. Unless you want to tell me what you wanted to say?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>…that’s so manipulative. So shady. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>So mean!</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>#karma</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>#jerk</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He laughs, downing another mouthful of coffee, checking the time on his phone.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>So about this prize for the winner</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I only race with nice people, bub.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Too scared now, I see how it is. All talk.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I don’t know how I ever thought you were a gentleman.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He snaps a selfie, pointing a finger at himself and adding <strong><em>Actor </em></strong>in text across the screen.</p><p>Sofie sends a picture of her rolling her eyes.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>#whenhethinkshesfunny</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He laughs, leaning against the arm of the couch while he waits for her next text.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Fine. I’ll race you. I have no idea how we could have a prize? You’re kind of… like really far away. Opposite coast and all.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p><em>I’ll fly to you,</em> he thinks, <em>just say the word</em>. But instead, he swallows that down and types (and sends, before he can second-guess himself):</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>If I win… you’ll Skype with me tonight.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>It takes two whole minutes for her answer to come through, he’s pretty sure his palms are sweaty, watching the time tick by.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Okay.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p> <strong><em>Rule 1: a screenshot of stats must be taken at the start and end of the race.</em></strong></p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Rule 2: extra points will not be awarded for calories burnt (lame)</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Rule 3: steps taken will not be the deciding factor (ha)</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Rule 4: no cheating (…)</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Rule 5: phone will be kept in the left hand for the duration of the race, no other unit of measure will be counted.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Rule 5: winner gets bragging rights forever/gets to pick their prize.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Could’ve done without the commentary. But fine, I agree to your terms, Mister Cavill.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Wonderful. I’ll see you on a treadmill in ten, Miss Miller.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Catch you in 10, loser.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Her picture comes through, her cheeks flushed and her hair frayed, but she’s grinning, the picture captioned with: <em>who’s faster than a speeding bullet—not u!!!</em></p><p>He laughs, or tries to, it comes out in a puff of his heavy breathing, still trying to come down from his (harder than normal) run. He isn’t surprised she won, exactly, but he would have liked to… would like to see her in more than a picture.</p><p>He still thinks he could do this better face-to-face.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>So that’s your choice then? Bragging rights forever?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>No.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Skype with me tonight.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>His heart fucking <em>skips</em>.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em>Okay, home now. Gonna get</em> <em> changed, give me a sec?</em></p>
  <p>
    <em>And don’t judge me, I’m too tired to get dressed all nice for you.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Of course.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>You don’t have to get dressed up for me, Sofie.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    
  </p>
</blockquote><p><em>Like at all,</em> he thinks, <em>or ever. I’d be quite happy with you naked. </em></p><p>His stomach twists and he wipes his hands down the worn-soft fabric of his sweats, pushing out a breath and stretching his legs before bringing his laptop onto his lap.</p><p><em>Shouldn’t be this nervous</em>, he thinks, they’ve been exchanging texts and photos for days now… and this was, after all, <em>his </em>fucking idea<em>.</em> But he is, <em>nervous</em> that is, waiting for the Skype call to come through—</p><p>And then it does and he hits accept—</p><p>The video blurs for a moment and then Sofie is there. In front of him.</p><p>She drags her teeth over her bottom lip, trying to hold in a smile and failing. “Hi,” she says her voice a little tinny through the speaker.</p><p>“Hi,” he says and feels that same sort of smile spreading on his own face, (one that he tries to hold back because it feels too eager and too honest and like it says more than it should.)</p><p>Her smile widens a little more, the dimples in her cheeks make him want to press his mouth to them, to feel if her skin is as warm as it looks. It’s late there, later than it is for him; her room is lit by an orange-y glow coming from a string of lights over her bed, over her shoulder he can see it, a big white thing he’s gotten a few glimpses of in her photos, a few more in the ones he creeped through in her friends Instagram accounts.</p><p>Sofie’s lit by the glow of them, it makes her sort of hazy and dreamlike and he wonders if she has any idea what she looks like to him, sitting in front of her laptop with her knee pulled up, the bare skin he knows— remembers pressing his mouth to the inside of that knee, the soft skin up that thigh…</p><p>He’s staring at her, he knows he is, but his mind is a little bit caught up in her being real— <em>almost real</em>—and in front of him after her being just text messages and photos for so long.</p><p><em>Say something,</em> he tells himself. <em>Don’t be such a fucking knob.</em></p><p>“Hi,” she says again and then her face scrunches, her head dropping against her knee and her shoulders shake, her laugh slipping through the speakers.</p><p>“This is <em>weird.</em>”</p><p>His smile grows wider, he can’t stop it. “A bit.”</p><p>His words won’t come, he wants to be <em>there</em> he thinks, wants to touch her, press his mouth against that knee again. Kiss her dimples.</p><p>Wants to fuck her in that bed beneath those string lights.</p><p>(Thinks about telling her, exactly what he thought before: <em>you’ve fucked me up here, Sofie, and I don’t know what to do about it.</em>)</p><p>She looks up at him again, her smile still tugging at her mouth like she can’t hold it back any more than he can. She presses her lips together, looking away from him and blowing out a breath.</p><p>“I have an idea,” she says, dropping her chin on her knee and he watches her look down, like she’s debating her words, her lashes sinking over her cheeks as she drags her bottom lip into her mouth again. “For taking the edge off.”</p><p>There’s a double entendre in there (that his mind can’t help but follow), but they haven’t <em>really</em> talked about New York or what happened between them since he made that joke about her drunk message being a booty call and he isn’t sure… isn’t ready to push for more than that at the risk of losing talking to her. (Because outside of everything he thinks, all those spilling, sneaking fantasies, he <em>enjoys</em> talking to her. To that girl on the treadmill, lip-syncing and smiling, dimple-cheeked at eight-thirty in the morning in a little, New York hotel gym.)</p><p>“I thought maybe we could just hang out,” she says, blinking at him, her smile a little smaller, her cheeks a little redder. “Like on Skype, of course, since you’re... you know, kinda <em>far</em>. But… I thought we could listen to music, maybe?”</p><p>The idea surprises him, but he finds himself caught by the idea that she’s been thinking about how this call might go just as much as he has. “Listen to music?”</p><p>She nods, looking down again and he watches her lashes, he’s seen her do it before, he thinks, when they first started running together in New York, (and, he thinks, there are things you notice in people when you get paid to play at emotions, tics and habits, things that speak volumes without words.)</p><p>She’s <em>nervous</em>.</p><p>“You know what I listen to, with you know, the playlists and all, and I was thinking… I don’t know what you like—”</p><p>“Anything but Abba.”</p><p>She laughs, rolling her eyes. “You like them a little, don’t lie.”</p><p>He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “I told you, Sofie, only when you’re lip-syncing them to me.”</p><p>She turns her head, her cheek rubbing against her knee, but he sees the smile she tries to hide anyway. When she looks back, she’s trying hard to keep it hidden.</p><p>“Shut up, I’m serious. I thought we could…maybe, just relax a bit, no pressure, right? it’s different…” <em>face to face,</em> she doesn’t say, but he understands anyway. Because it is, he isn’t sure if he’s got the mind to carry a conversation when he’s so distracted by just… seeing her again.</p><p>
  <em>You fucking sap.</em>
</p><p>“Alright,” he says, and then remembers what she said to him, that first, morning run. “But you can’t make fun of any of the songs.”</p><p>Sofie grins. “I can’t promise that.”</p><p>He laughs, shaking his head, but then she’s pushing up from where she’s sitting and he gets a flash of her legs in sleep shorts, little red, white-lined things, just beneath the hem of her hoodie, but then the camera blurs and there’s nothing to see until it focuses again, showing a cracked-open door and a dresser. And his KC hat sitting on top.</p><p>He smiles, rubbing his hand over his jaw, telling himself he’s ridiculous. That this whole thing is ridiculous. It’s just a hat.</p><p>But he <em>likes</em> that she wears it. He can’t lie.</p><p>Sofie comes back into view, stretching out on her bed, he realizes, understanding now that she carried her laptop over to her bed and she’s on it now… exactly where he would like, very much, to be with her.</p><p>It’s a cruel sort of tease.</p><p>And he’s pretty sure it isn’t even intentional.</p><p>She settles on her stomach and over her shoulder, he catches sight of the wool socks on her feet, fluffy white things that should not turn him on, but <em>do.</em></p><p>He <em>swears</em> he doesn’t have a feet thing.</p><p>It’s only seven in LA, and he still needs to have another protein shake, but Kal is walked and fed and the night is his…so he follows her lead and moves from the hard couch to the soft hotel bed and leans back against the headboard. Propping the laptop up on his lap.</p><p>Sofie smiles at him, her toes pointing and easing, her calves stretching a little as her legs sway a bit. He would genuinely pay money to be on that bed with her, he thinks, and can’t help but wonder if her shorts ride up—</p><p>“What?” she asks, looking back over her shoulder like he could possibly be looking at anything other than her.</p><p>“Nice socks,” he says, scratching his jaw before pushing his hand through his hair, ignoring the half-hard length of his cock beneath the laptop. <em>Should have jerked off first</em>, he thinks, but then, who knew he was so pathetic to get turned on by a girl in <em>pyjamas</em>.</p><p>Sofie flushes, but smiles, wiggling her toes in the thick white fluff. “They’re comfy.”</p><p>“They look it,” he nods, eyes darting back to them again.</p><p>Sofie says nothing, worrying her lip. Their eyes meet.</p><p>The moment stretches out.</p><p> </p><p>So, he fucking <em>sucks </em>at face to face too. Apparently.</p><p> </p><p>He clears his throat, shifting a little in the bed, biting back the very real urge to shut the laptop and just fucking fly out to Maine and—</p><p>“I’ll send you the Spotify link, yeah?” he can feel how rough his voice is and it makes his accent thicker, his words sliding together.</p><p>Sofie nods.</p><p>Henry pulls in a breath, flipping a tag over and opening his desktop Spotify app and loading up his main library. It’s not as eclectic as hers, he knows, he’s spent the last few weeks flipping through her playlists, lately the one labelled: <em>dancing in your underwear.</em></p><p>Because she’s unintentionally trying to drive him absolutely <em>mad</em>.</p><p>(And like fuck he hasn’t thought about it. He knows her hips, that curve along her spine, the shape of her ass—)</p><p>His cock gets a little harder, he feels like a pervert. (He wonders if she’s wet at all, turned on at all… because she’s just a little bit flushed and her toes keep curling and easing and he remembers them doing that over his shoulders as he fucked her.)</p><p>Sofie pulls in a breath, rolling onto her back and covering her face with her hands and letting out a tight laugh. “<em>Please</em> put some music on.”</p><p>He wants to tease her, but his words won’t come. He realizes, somehow, he was better at this <em>before</em> he slept with her.</p><p> </p><p>Which is <em>several</em> different kinds of pathetic, he thinks.</p><p> </p><p>But she’s right, there’s a strain between them, and it isn’t just because he can’t stop thinking about fucking her— it’s being face-to-face after a week of texts, after three weeks of silence… after the last time they saw each other, she was wrapped in a towel and leaking his cum and he—</p><p><em>Left</em>.</p><p>Adjusting himself on the bed, Henry sets his laptop on a pillow near his arm for easy reach but eases more into the plush pillows behind his back as he leans against the headboard. Sofie’s there through it all, her head turned to look at him again.</p><p>He picks something easy, upbeat but not her kind of upbeat, something he runs to, alone in the early mornings when he needs something easy and light until he hits the gym and he’s too caught up in the burn of his muscles to listen to lyrics.</p><p>“I have this song,” she says with a smile, but she’s still looking at the ceiling in her room again. He nods, even though she isn’t looking and sinks a little further in the bed, glancing at his own bare, hotel ceiling.</p><p>“I know, figured I’d start safe.”</p><p>She laughs and the sound eases between them, her head turns, her dimple disappearing into the soft of her ruffled duvet. “You’ve been listening to my playlists?”</p><p>He huffs a laugh. “More than I’ll admit to.”</p><p>Her smile widens, neither one looks away and the moment stretches until Kal hops up onto the bed and sticks his face into the laptop and all he can hear is Sofie’s laughter.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Hey there, Kal. </em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>What up what up</p><p>This chapter was like getting hella long, so I split it at a wonderful place. You'll love me for it. Really</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                She isn’t going to think about it.</p><p> </p><p>(That’s a lie, she’s definitely thinking about it. In her bed, with her hand clenched in her sheets, fantasies spilling around her as slick as her fingers are on her clit. Thinking about him on her laptop screen, about him in the shower, his voice in her ear, his voice late last night, <em>Goodnight, Sofie.</em>)</p><p>(Her spine rolls, her thighs tremble, but he’s there in her head, pulling her deeper, urging her on: <em>Come on, Sofie. That’s it. </em></p><p><em>That’s it.</em>)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sofie wipes a hand across her mirror, staring at herself through the steam, blowing out a breath and reaching for her phone when it goes off. (Ignoring the little ache between the thighs, that little bit of warmth that makes her body all heavy and loose all at once.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>You run yet?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Not yet. You?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Nope. Want to run together?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Pick a playlist. I’ll be ready in ten. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>  </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <strong>  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>  </strong>
</p><p>Sofie breathes out, tightening her ponytail and stretching her legs out as she cools down against the gym mat before grabbing her phone and flicking open her messages, sending a screenshot of her stats just as his ping through in her notifications.</p><p><strong><em>Go figure,</em> </strong>he texts back almost right away, with an image highlighting her distance compared to his. Sofie sends him a laughing-face emoji.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Be right back, have to run my social media for a bit. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Since, you know, I do run my own.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>She snorts a laugh, dropping back against the mat.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Sure sure. Who knew you were such a sore loser.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I’m being the bigger person here and not going to say you should try lugging around another hundred plus pounds and see how far you get.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Also, no making fun of the video when you see it.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I’d still whoop you. And I definitely can’t promise that.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>He doesn’t answer, so Sofie finishes her workout, pushing through sit-ups and crunches and lunges until her legs are wobbly.</p><p>She tries not to think about last night. (Or this morning. Or any other time she’s used him to get off.)</p><p>About how he looked, in a grey t-shirt, in the low, orangey-light of his hotel room, the dark of his hair and the stubble on his chin. The shift of his arm or his hand as they talked. The way his mouth moved, how his voice got lower, rougher and quieter, (like something meant for a bedroom, a bed, his lips brushing her ear, his body pressed up against hers) as it got later and later and her eyes got heavier and heavier until… <em>goodnight, Sofie.</em></p><p> </p><p>But it’s all there in her head, behind her eyelids. Seeing him again after so long was— a mistake, maybe. She isn’t sure. Only knows that she woke up to a text from him and it made her… happy and sad and lonely and somehow, <em>special</em> all at once.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Sweet dreams, Sofie. I’m trying hard not to tell you how cute you look half-asleep.</em> </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s nothing new, she thinks, he’s been fucking up her insides since she met him. But it was easier at first, so much easier to just wrap that weird, hot, nervous feeling he gave her up into a tidy little package of wanting to sleep with him, rather than now; when they’re a whole <em>country apart.</em> One coastline to another.</p><p>She isn’t sure what to <em>do</em> with these feelings.</p><p>It’s not like— it’s not like they can <em>date,</em> right?</p><p>It’s not like she <em>wants</em> to date him, right? She can’t imagine it, not any of it, the photos and cameras and all those things she saw online, just right at the tip of her fingers after one Google search of his name.</p><p>She can’t imagine it.</p><p>Sofie pushes out a breath, trying to cut off her own thoughts. <em>It doesn’t matter</em>, she tells herself, <em>just enjoy it. Whatever it is.</em></p><p>When she drops down to the mat again, she grabs her phone and flicks into Instagram, opening up Henry’s page and checking for the new video. Because what <em>else</em> is there? She’s too caught up in him, she thinks, but… but she—</p><p>And there, the new video pops up but before she can click into it—</p><p>
  <em>Henrycavill sent you a message.</em>
</p><p>With a frown, Sofie clicks on the notification. In her chat with him, a video pops up. Sofie snorts, thinking he sent her the same video he just posted, just to show her that he really does run his own accounts.</p><p>The video loads, and it’s him, sitting on his hotel balcony, she’d guess. He’s bathed in an almost too-bright sunlight; still sweaty, just like she is, because…somehow, they’re running together. Somehow, they’re… friends?</p><p>(But he looked at her, he <em>did</em>, she saw— <em>felt</em> the weight of his eyes, the thick weight of a too-long silence stretched out between moments.)</p><p>Are they friends?</p><p>Henry adjusts the black KC cap on his head, leaning back in a patio chair, the black tank top he’s wearing clings to his chest in a way that makes her hate him, just a little.</p><p> In like, a totally appreciative way.</p><p>“You’re pretty great for my cardio, Sof,” he starts— and Sofie blinks, something sparking in her stomach at him saying her name in a video she thought was meant for his Instagram.</p><p>It catches her off guard, makes her nerves prick with something eager for more. Something hot and warm that makes her mind spin as she turn up the volume just to get more of his voice.</p><p>She watches him pull in a breath and let it out slowly as he tries to cool down the way she is from her workout; the thick of his upper body moving, a peak of his chest hair beneath his tank top. The way his shoulders shift, shiny with sweat, broad and heavy and warm, (<em>hard</em>, she knows, has sunk her nails into them, her teeth, felt the flex of them as he held her, moved her, pushed inside her.)</p><p>She pushes out a little breath as her insides twist with a flickering spark of that hot and wanting thing that burns inside of her whenever she thinks about New York.</p><p>“There’s this race coming up, not sure if you saw that on here before, since you said you looked through here a bit—” She watches Henry tug at his ballcap, that familiar, almost nervous move, running a hand through his dark hair before readjusting the cap on his head. “—but anyway, if you didn’t, it’s this charity I work with, a Zoo back at home in Jersey—”</p><p><em>Right,</em> she thinks, <em>home in Jersey. So not like, New Jersey then. </em>She tries not to be disappointed that he won’t be like, right on the same coast as her… but she is a little, she can’t ignore that little plummet of a feeling.</p><p>“—I do it every year. It’s called Durrell. It’s a conservation charity. For the zoo and animals and all that,” he clears his throat, squinting away and out over what Sofie thinks is his hotel balcony, the sun bright, even this early. “It’s 13-k and I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not much of a natural, willing runner?”</p><p>She laughs as he smiles into the camera, watching as he adjusts his phone a bit, shifting in his chair. Kal moves in the background, a black, furry mass just at the bottom of the camera. “Anyway, I think we should make this a thing, you know? Us running together. I mean, not that we haven’t been, just… I’ve been thinking about it, I know you’ve got work, but maybe we could figure out a time, or even just challenge each other, I think it’s pretty obvious you’re the better runner here.”</p><p>He lifts a brow, his smile crooked before he winks at her. “And that will <em>literally</em> be the only time I ever admit that. You better enjoy it.”</p><p><em>I’ll save it forever,</em> she thinks with a laugh. <em> You’ll never live it down.</em></p><p>“It’s May 13<sup>th</sup>, so you’ve got like, almost two weeks to help whip me into running shape, think you’re up for it, Sof-bee?”</p><p>His smile is crooked and his eyes are bright and Sofie— Sofie kinda really hates his face, she thinks<em>, it’s a mean face. It’s a rude face.</em></p><p>It’s <em>offensive</em>, is what it is.</p><p>“I’m going to clip this and finish the video I was supposed to be making,” he says, looking into the camera. “So I guess you can go watch that one and watch me embarrass myself a little bit, admitting I’m not a runner. But you know,” he pulls a considering face. “Needs must. For charity and all… Talk to you tonight on skype?”</p><p>
  <em>Tonight on Skype.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Tonight on Skype.</em>
</p><p>Pushing her lips together and trying to hold back her smile, she tries to ignore the flutter in her stomach, that staccato beat to her heart that has nothing at all to do with her workout. Sofie restarts the video, ignoring the itch inside of her to just like… laugh<em>. Scream. </em>Give into that hysterical bubble in the stomach that pops and fizzes like champagne.</p><p>She feels like she could get drunk on it.</p><p>Like she might already be drunk on that feeling. Every moment, every stolen moment of him in her life, in her <em>real </em>life, here in Maine feels like— like—</p><p>Like <em>something.</em></p><p>Blowing out a breath and sitting up straighter, she opens Skype and tells herself to be cool, to not think about him in the orangey light of his hotel room, to not think about him in a hotel bed, naked beneath a thin, tangled up sheet—</p><p>
  <em>Don’t think about it.</em>
</p><p><em>Friends</em>, she thinks, <em>we’re supposed to be starting with friends. </em></p><p>Forcing a bright, cheeky smile, she snaps a quick selfie of herself with a hand over her heart.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>May 2<sup>nd</sup>, 2018: Dear diary, today Henry Cavill told me I was a better runner than him. </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He sends her a message back, a short video of him rolling his eyes. She can’t help but notice he’s shirtless. It’s a darker photo, and he must be in his hotel room; it’s really just the thick of his shoulders, but there’s no tank top, just skin, the start of his chest…</p><p>She swallows and types:</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p> <em>May 2<sup>nd</sup>, 2018: Henry Cavill admits the truth. Sofie wonders if it hurts him to do it.</em></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>She gets a text back a moment later.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>May 2<sup>nd</sup>, 2018: Henry Cavill cries in the shower, trying to reconcile not really being Superman; a devastating blow to his ego.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie laughs out loud, putting a hand over her mouth before dropping back to the mat and giving in to it, her eyes closing as she laughs.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>            (After Skyping that night, after they’ve talked about Durrell and running and how much he really isn’t a fan of straight cardio, (<em>Like, at all, Sofie, I’d rather get my arse beat in ju-jitsu any fucking day,)</em> she flips over into his Instagram to watch the video.</p><p>The full/real/<em>meant for his fans</em> video.</p><p>Trying not to notice, to not think about how it had to have been taken right after the video he sent her. Like he got back to his hotel, sat down on that LA-sunshine lit balcony and started recording… started talking <em>to her</em> instead and then had to… to cut it, just like he said, to roll into a video he shows the world.</p><p>She isn’t sure what to think about it, knowing the whole video. That the world has this… this half of a moment that sort of… sort of started as him just talking to <em>her</em>.</p><p>It’s strange.</p><p> </p><p>It’s <em>something.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>                <strong><em>All done?</em></strong></p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>Don’t you like… have better things to be doing instead of making sure I get home safe? Isn’t it like… 830 in LA?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I feel like this incriminating. And also like I’m being called boring.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie snorts a laugh, waiting for her shift supervisor to lock the door before they say goodbye and she heads towards home, hiking her bag higher on her shoulder and typing back a laughing emoji and adding:</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Which is it, incriminating or insulting?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Both?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Can’t be both. It’s either true or not true.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>He sends her a snap, him pulling a sad face while holding a protein shake.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>It’s both.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie laughs, snapping a photo of her own, of the quiet street, the way everything is dark and glossy, a little bit of rain earlier that makes all the lights blur on the ground in streaks of colours.</p><p>With a grin, she snaps another, taking a photo just over her shoulder of a shadowy shape looming behind her that isn’t very clear in the dark; typing a quick caption of: <em>ah! A bogeyman! </em></p><p>And then turns her phone, taking another picture right after, showing that it’s nothing more than a shadowy tree on the sidewalk and adds:</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>no, wait, it’s a tree. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>#Falsealarm</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Her phone rings.</p><p>Sofie blinks at it, staring at his name flashing across her screen—</p><p>And then swipes her thumb across the answer button.</p><p>“You’re really not funny, you know that?” Henry says in her ear, his voice low, dropping like something hot and heavy in her stomach, making her bite her cheek, getting a little lost in the rumble of it through the phone. “Here I am, sitting in my hotel room in LA pacing and waiting, and you’re making <em>jokes</em>.”</p><p>She laughs. “Pacing and waiting, huh?”</p><p>“There’s a hole in the carpet and everything.”</p><p>“You’re such a dick,” Sofie laughs, dropping her head back and grinning at the night sky. “It’s literally five minutes. I’ve been working here for like, a decade.”</p><p>“Barista at 11, that’s an accomplishment.”</p><p>“Thank you, I’m very proud of it. I’m was a very mature pre-teen. I think it was the caffeine.”</p><p>He laughs in her ear, a low, rolling sound that makes her insides curl like a burning bit of paper beneath a flame. She almost walks into someone walking their dog, she’s so distracted by the sound of him, and she wobbles through an apology with Henry’s laughter in her ear.</p><p>“It explains some things,” he says and Sofie can practically hear the smile in his voice and it makes her smile at nothing but the dark, wet street around her.</p><p>“Oh yeah? What things?”</p><p>“Why you’re so short, for one, they always did warn that caffeine stunts growth.”</p><p>Sofie laughs, she can’t stop it. “You’re such an <em>ass.</em> That’s not even true.”</p><p>“Really? Hit a growth spurt in the last month, then?”</p><p>Sofie rolls her eyes but she’s still laughing, cutting across the next street. “You shouldn’t make fun of the disadvantaged, you know.”</p><p>He laughs, something fuzzes on the line and she thinks he’s moving around. “Nah, not disadvantaged, just…”</p><p>“Vertically-challenged?” she suggests with a grin.</p><p>“Pint-sized.”</p><p>She laughs, shaking her head. “So British. Pocket-sized.”</p><p>“Ankle-biter?”</p><p>She laughs, her face scrunching with it. “Hobbit?”</p><p>His laugh is low in her ear and Sofie can practically see his head tilting back. “I’ve seen your feet, not quite a hobbit.”</p><p>“Thank God for that,” she grins and smiles to herself, listening to his laughter fade. “I mean, you do have that feet thing.”</p><p>When he laughs again, deep and long, Sofie scrunches her face, trying to hold back that happy, bright feeling coursing through her that wants to burst out in something too embarrassing while being in public.</p><p>She kinda hates how much she likes making him laugh.</p><p>“I swear, I <em>swear</em> there’s no feet thing,” he says, his voice still caught up in a laugh. Sofie would pay money to see it for real. But that’s just like, desperate. And she’s totally not desperate.</p><p>
  <em>Really.</em>
</p><p>She hums into her phone. “Sure, totally. I completely believe you.<em>”</em></p><p>He snorts, and she hears him move again, as he pushes out a breath sill tinged with humour. “You’re impossible.”</p><p>“I’m a gift, I told you. Here to make your boring LA nights exciting all the way from the east coast. Well, at least between work shifts.”</p><p>“Bang-up job, so far. Sof-bee, I have to say,” he chuckles and Sofie tries to ignore how her nickname sounds coming from his mouth. Weird. Hot. Dirty in this… perverse sort of way. Maybe it’s because of how he first said it. In the bathroom, her back to the door, naked and hard and about to kiss her.</p><p> “And ignoring the topic of my boring arse in LA… you like your job?”</p><p>Sofie shrugs, even though he can’t see it, pushing those memories away.</p><p>“It’s a job, you know?” She pauses, pushing out a little breath, “That’s not true. Annie used to bring me there when I was little, I’ve always liked it. I’m pretty close to the owners and, and then when I got older, it just made sense to work there, too. Plus, I get to work with my best friend or one of them at least.”</p><p>There’s a beat of silence.</p><p>“The one in the video?”</p><p>The video, she thinks, before remembering—</p><p> “Oh <em>god, </em>the <em>video,</em>” she groans, wincing at the memory. “Please tell me you deleted that?”</p><p>There’s another beat of silence, Sofie cuts across the street, checking both ways but focused on the phone against her ear and the man on the other side of the line…and country.</p><p>“I plead the fifth.”</p><p>Sofie blinks and then laughs, enjoying the sound of him joining in as she reaches her street. “That was so <em>American.</em>”</p><p>“See, that there is incriminating—”</p><p>“Not insulting?”</p><p>“Nah, <em>incriminating, </em>little lady. Listen up.”</p><p><em>Jesus, </em>she thinks, because his voice is low and thick and it should be <em>illegal, </em>that rough southern twang that’s— that’s just—</p><p>
  <em>Oh my God.</em>
</p><p>“How are you so good at that?”</p><p>“Did a movie,” he says in that same low voice. “Sandcastle. Played an army captain, not a big part, but it was some’en new.”</p><p><em>It’s rude,</em> Sofie thinks, <em>disgusting, really. </em>The things he does to her with just his <em>voice.</em></p><p>“Sofie?” he says, and it’s his voice again, low and British, but no less nice<em>.</em></p><p>“You sound so different when you flip through them all.”</p><p>He hums, “Yeah, the pitch in my voice changes when I’m just doing a flat, standard American, you’ll see it Mission Impossible… or you will if you see it, of course. Don’t want to assume.”</p><p>“I’ll see it,” she says as she climbs the few steps of her home, seeing the lights on and knowing her mother must be home. “I mean, literally <em>just</em> for the moustache, but still.”</p><p>He laughs and Sofie pushes open the front door and shutting it as quietly as possible before toeing off her sneakers and tip-toeing towards the stairs.</p><p>“Yeah, you and everyone else. I’m pretty sure that moustache gave me like an extra couple mil in followers. Don’t understand it. But—”</p><p>Sofie breathes out a laugh. “You don’t understand it? Have you seen yourself, Cavill? Come on.”</p><p>He snorts. “Says the girl who doesn’t understand why she shouldn’t walk home alone.”</p><p>Sofie shuts her door quietly, before relaxing, but keeping her voice low, anyway. “Listen, you shouldn’t make fun of short people, we can—”</p><p>There’s a puff of breath in her ear. “I’m serious, Sofie.”</p><p>Sofie blinks at his tone. “I…. I think you’re severely over-estimating my physical appeal.”</p><p>“I disagree. I <em>incredibly</em> disagree. You can’t honestly tell me you’ve never been hit on at your work? Or out dancing, dancing-girl?”</p><p>Sofie snorts. “One thing you learn really quickly working in the service industry, Cavill, is that men will literally hit on anything. Like literally. Vaguely female shaped and something they consider bang-able? They’re down.”</p><p>“And what, you think you aren’t vaguely female shaped and bang-able?”</p><p>“No, I’m aware that I’m both to some people. But I’m not like…” Sofie sighs, hitting speaker on her phone and dropping it on her bed while she tugs off her coffee-smelling shirt. “Listen, this is stupid. You’re a bit biased as you’ve, you know, <em>banged me.</em> But I guarantee, Henry, there’s nothing to worry about. Portland is pretty boring. <em>Pretty</em>, but <em>boring</em>.”</p><p>“Didn’t know a place had to be exciting to be dangerous.”</p><p>“It’s an unwritten rule. But I’ll let you know right away if I ever see any creepy, unmarked white vans. And the next time a stranger offers me candy, I promise I won’t take it anymore. Not even if it’s a full-sized chocolate bar.”</p><p>He groans a laugh. “Not funny.”</p><p>“I disagree.”</p><p>“I’m not trying to overstep, you know that, right? I just think… You’re a pretty girl, Sofie. And pretty small.”</p><p>“I prefer to think of it as fun-size instead of target-size.”</p><p>He groans. “You’re ridiculous, is what you are. What are you doing, anyway, your voice is all distant?”</p><p>“Changing,” Sofie says through her hoodie as she tugs it over her head. “You’re on speaker.”</p><p>He makes an <em>ah</em>, sound, followed by a beat of silence. Sofie glances at her phone while she shucks her jeans, and reaches for her shorts. “What are you doing?”</p><p>Another beat of silence. “…Talking to you and petting Kal.”</p><p>“On a beautiful night in LA.” She <em>tsks</em>, pulling out a pair of long, Harry Potter-themed socks and tugging them on. “What would your fan-club say?”</p><p>“‘<em>Where are you</em>? <em>I’ll give you something to do,</em>’” he says, pitching his voice higher and breathier. “‘<em>I’ll keep you company.’</em>”</p><p>Sofie laughs, “Okay, <em>fair</em>. But also, seriously, do you not want to go do something? I promise I won’t be offended if you bail on me.”</p><p>“Is this you trying to politely get away from me tonight? If you have plans—”</p><p>“I’m in my PJ’s and it’s almost midnight,” Sofie huffs, dropping down onto her bed and hugging her throw pillow. “I was just checking. I’m just… I’m sure there are, like, a lot of exclusive, private clubs that are bound to entice even Superman.”</p><p>“I’m sure there are. But… but I told this cute girl I was going to see her on skype tonight, and you know, I’ve kind of been looking forward to seeing her all day.”</p><p>Sofie smiles, pushing her face into the pillow. “Yeah?”</p><p><em>Yeah,</em> he says.</p><p>Sofie holds her breath, clenching her eyes shut and waiting for that swelling feeling inside her stomach to fade a little.</p><p>“Sof?” he says, his voice a little low and distant through the phone.</p><p>She bites her cheek, turning her face out of the pillow to pull in a breath. “I’m here.”</p><p>“Alright?”</p><p>“Yup,” she says, in a light tone she doesn’t really feel, trying not to wonder, to not <em>ask— how do you feel about me? Do you like-like me? What are we doing? Am I ever going to see you again?</em></p><p>
  <em>Are we just friends?</em>
</p><p>But instead, she says:</p><p>“Do you want to Skype?”</p><p>Henry sighs, heavily, his voice drawling. “I mean I guess so, LA is just so <em>boring, </em>what else am I going to do for the rest of the night?”</p><p>She laughs, shaking her head even though he can’t see it.  “Ass.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>                Sofie looks half-asleep, her head pillowed on her arm, blinking heavily at him. “Tell me about The Witcher.”</p><p>“You’re going to fall asleep, Sof.”</p><p>“M’not,” she mumbles, her bottom lip pushing out. “Tell me about it. You keep avoiding talking about it. Other than it being a Netflix thing.”</p><p>He hesitates and he thinks Sofie might take it as him not wanting to tell her, when it’s really just about him not wanting to fully admit just how much of a nerd he is.</p><p>You know. <em>Yet</em>. (He’s not ashamed of it, he tells himself, he’s just… aware of the possibility, the reality, that at one time he was the nerd in the back the class, the chubby kid who played PC games and read Lord of the Rings.)</p><p>“Unless you can’t talk about it? Sorry, shouldn’t have pushe—”</p><p> “No, it’s not that. It’s all just hopeful anyway, you know.” He shakes his head, scratching his chest and pulling in a breath. “The Witcher is a book series turned videogame that I played a few years ago. I got really into it… and then when I heard rumours that it was being adapted…” he trails off and Sofie blinks at him.</p><p>“You wanted to be a part of it?”</p><p>He nods. “I’ve been trying to… well, to show them that I can fill that role even though I’ve never really played that type of character.”</p><p>“Why wouldn’t you be able to? What’s the role?”</p><p>“It’s… a fantasy book, the main character, Geralt, he’s like… they’re called Witchers…” Sofie blinks at him, listening as he talks, as he slips off the bed to grab his notes and the dog-eared copy of The Witcher he’s been carting around, flipping through his notes about Geralt and the world and what he thinks the adaption should focus on. “It’s a bit dialogue-heavy, the first book, but that’s the one they’ll be focusing on. Setting things up in the hopes of doing more than a season. But there’s a lot of material there, you know? And you can’t just fill every scene with talking and exposition, things that work in the book won’t work on screen. Especially in a fantasy world where so many things need to be explained. Or at least shown to some degree.”</p><p>Sofie’s lips pull up into a slow smile and her eyes close in a slow blink. “You’re really into this, huh?”</p><p>He nods, that familiar tug of self-consciousness in his stomach; he doesn’t talk about this side of himself much. No one wants to see it, they just want the muscles and suits and the cape.</p><p>Or at least, that’s what <em>most</em> of them want.</p><p>“I’m a bit of a nerd, to be honest.”</p><p>“Really,” she grins, propping her head up onto her chin. “I would never have guessed, Mister Tolkien-is-my-favourite-author.”</p><p>He breathes out a laugh, dropping his head back. “You asked.”</p><p> She laughs, her dimples deep in her cheeks, even with her head resting on her arm. “So… Dungeons and Dragons kind of nerd? Or like Star Trek kind of nerd.”</p><p>He hesitates, wincing a little and looking at her.  “Both?”</p><p>She laughs, her head lifting a little. “Wait. Star <em>Trek</em> or Star <em>Wars</em>?”</p><p>Something eases inside of him at her smile. “It’s close… but, <em>Trek</em>.”</p><p>She grins, dropping her cheek back onto her arms. “Good. I used to watch Star Trek with Annie, Star Wars is good and all, but Star Trek is… like,” she scrunches her nose. “Classic, you know.”</p><p>He grins back, that old anxiety in his stomach easing completely as he looks at her tired smile, the way she’s obviously forcing herself to stay awake to listen to him talk about his work… about his interests. “Who’s Annie?”</p><p>Sofie rolls onto her back and stretches out, he hears her yawn before she rolls back over to face him, plucking at her duvet with short nails, her eyelashes heavy as she looks down.</p><p>“Annie is… she lived next to me and my mom when I was a kid. I used to like, spend all my time with her because my mom was going through medical school. And working, to support me and all that. So, Annie took care of me. Pretty sure it was all free, too. She’s the one who read me the Narnia books, actually. And like, probably why I like so much old-school music. We used to have dance parties.”</p><p>He smiles while watching her; Sofie glances at him like and her own smile spreads. “What?” she asks, her fingers twisting in her bedspread.</p><p>“That’s cool. She sounds like an amazing lady.”</p><p>Sofie nods, chewing her cheek. “She’s like, pretty much my grandma. Unofficially.”</p><p>“Unofficially?”</p><p>Sofie shrugs, dropping her head down again. “My mom… we don’t see her parents. So. Annie’s like, unofficial-grandma.”</p><p>There’s a beat of silence, Sofie plucks at the duvet, looking down for another moment before she looks up at him and grins. “You should read it to me.”</p><p>He frowns. “Read what?”</p><p>“The Witcher. Read it to me.”</p><p>His eyebrows tilt, disbelieving. “You do <em>not</em> want me to read it to you.”</p><p>Sofie’s smile grows wider, her eyes bright, even though he knows she’s tired. It’s late; his laptop clock flips from 10:35 to 10:36. Which means it’s nearly two in the morning for her.</p><p>“I do. Come on, Mister Geralt, read your book to me. I want to see who you’ll be playing.”</p><p>“<em>If</em> I get the role.”</p><p> “You’ll get it,” she says evenly, <em>easily, </em>like it’s a forgone conclusion; dropping her cheek back down against her arm with a cheeky smile. “Now read.”</p><p>He stares at her, their eyes locked for a beat of his pulse, a trip of his heart, a too-long moment where he thinks, <em>where did you come from?</em></p><p>He pulls in a breath, looking down at The Witcher on his lap. Sofie moves, her image blurs for a second and then she’s back, hugging a soft pillow and snuggling into it. (If he’s a <em>little</em> jealous of a pillow, no one will ever need to know.)</p><p>“You really want me to read it to you?”</p><p>“You’re reading it over anyway, aren’t you?”</p><p>He nods. “I’ve never read out loud to anyone. I might be terrible.”</p><p>Sofie snorts, her eyes closing. “You heard your voice, Cavill? You’ll be fine.”</p><p>He feels his lips tug up as her words sink in, watches her pause, her eyes opening and flicking to him like she’s checking to see if he noticed the implication of her words.</p><p>He did.</p><p>Sofie flushes, ducking her head back down, her voice muffled by her pillow. “Shut up. Read.”</p><p> </p><p>So he does.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(If she falls asleep before the second chapter, he doesn’t judge her for it; watching her sleep for a few minutes before getting up to get ready for bed himself. Sending her a goodnight text and watching her phone light up near her hand before shutting his laptop and staring at the dark, empty hotel ceiling while thinking about that little inhale Sofie made, right before every kiss.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>  <em>May 5<sup>th</sup>, 2018: Sofie Miller wants to apologise for falling asleep but is too embarrassed. Instead she will pretend it didn’t happen like one whole-ass adult.</em></p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>May 5<sup>th</sup>, 2018: Henry Cavill would like to tell Sofie Miller that she looks cute sleeping even if he is a little hurt that his voice is so boring it put her to sleep.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>She hits dial before she thinks it through. “It did not, you big jerk!”          </p><p>He laughs in her ear, his voice still sleep-rough; sending this <em>tremor</em> of a feeling through her stomach and spine. Like she can feel it, that memory of him pressed against her in the morning, his voice low and rough and <em>perfect</em>.</p><p>“Good morning to you too, Sofie.”</p><p> </p><p>               </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>               </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>               Sofie bites back her smile at Henry’s text and tucks her phone into her pocket after shooting a reply just as the bell above the door jingles and she looks up, ready to greet the customer with a (forced) over-excited smile.</p><p>Only to see that it’s Sara, rolling in in overlarge sunglasses and her dark hair thrown up into a messy bun, looking like she just rolled out of bed.</p><p>Sofie’s eyebrows climb up her forehead. “Wow, I literally thought you would die if you ever got up before noon on a Saturday.”</p><p>Sara huffs, stepping up to the counter before plastering her upper body over it, dropping her cheek to the counter as her bottom lip pushes out. “Caffeine me, bitch.”</p><p>She laughs, pushing at Sara’s head. “Pretty sure this is unsanitary. Like, so much money sits on this counter. And grubby customer hands. Student hands. And you know what <em>they</em> get up to.”</p><p>“Yeah, <em>Lee</em>.”</p><p>“Exactly,” Sofie laughs, turning away as Sara pushes up with a groan. “So why are you up this early?”</p><p>“…You love me, right?”</p><p>“Oh no,” Sofie groans, dropping her head back.</p><p>“You’re my best-est friend in the whole world, I don’t care what stinky Lee says. Uteruses before duderuses. Sisters before misters. Chicks before—”</p><p>“<em>Okay!</em>” Sofie laughs, looking back at Sara. “What do you want?”</p><p>“There’s this uh, party thing going on tonight and Cole’s going to be there and I really want to go but I can’t go alone, it’d be weird and he’s like, kinda a meathead? I’ll need backup in case he’s like, too dumb to live.”</p><p>“Cole, a meathead? No way,” Sofie sucks in a shocked breath, widening her eyes. “I never would have guessed.”</p><p><em>Ha, ha,</em> Sara drawls, giving Sofie a withering glare. “I don’t want to <em>date</em> him, I just want to <em>bone</em> him. Or have him bone me, if we’re being more literal.”</p><p>“Because we’re always super literal,” Sofie drawls back, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter across from the other girl.</p><p>“I’ve been eyeing this guy all term, Sofie, <em>pleaseplease—</em>”</p><p>“What time is it at?”</p><p>Sara grins, bouncing once and doing a weird little dance on the spot. “Thank you, thank you! It’ll be fun, I promise!”</p><p>Sofie just laughs and shakes her head, knowing it wouldn’t <em>not</em> be fun, it’s just…she thinks she would rather go home and wait for—</p><p>She frowns at herself, because she isn’t in a <em>relationship</em> with him. They aren’t <em>dating</em>. They aren’t <em>anything. </em></p><p>What’s she going to do, sit at home and spend her nights Skyping with a guy who could literally go anywhere and be anywhere in the world? That could literally have his pick of anyone he wants—</p><p>Sofie turns back around to make Sara’s drink, hiding her sudden shift in mood that she’s sure is on her face, as heavy as the drop in her stomach.</p><p><em>What am I doing? s</em>he thinks, <em>what does he want?</em></p><p>She has no idea, she realises, too caught up in talking to him again, to seeing him, to feeling like— <em>like what,</em> she thinks, <em>like what?</em></p><p>When she sets Sara’s to-go cup down in front of her, Sofie forces a smile, trying to shove Henry out of her thoughts. “So, you never did explain why you’re up so early.”</p><p>Sara grins, sticking her tongue into the protruding whip-cream. “Uh, <em>shopping</em>, of course. He’s a meathead, he’s literally going to think with his dick and I’m one-hundred-percent going to encourage that.”</p><p>“Solid plan,” Sofie laughs.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “You know it’s pretty much going to be a frat house party, right?” Liam asks, his arms crossed as he leans against the counter beside Sofie. “Like, literally a frat house, actually.”</p><p>Sofie winces, but shrugs. “I figured.”</p><p>“It’s not really your scene,” he says slowly, his eyebrows tilting up like he can’t believe Sofie said yes. “Like at all.”</p><p> “She asked me to go,” Sofie shrugs again, like she isn’t fully aware that frat houses are not really her style of partying. “And I didn’t know I had a <em>scene</em>.”</p><p>He snorts. “Uh, yeah, you’re the club-girl, dancing, a few drinks with friends kinda girl, not the keg-stand, hookup in a random bedroom kind of girl.”</p><p>“Sounds like there’s some experience in there,” she teases and Liam just shakes his head, his mouth twitching.</p><p>“No shit, but I embrace my inner frat boy. You got the dancing-girl thing, I don’t think it’ll mix well.”</p><p>“It almost sounds like you don’t want me to go, Lee.” Sofie fakes a pout, glancing up at him and watching his face shift through surprised to irritated.</p><p>“Nah, come on,” he huffs. “That’s not it. Just…” he winces, “Just the guys can get handsy and like, intense.”</p><p>“…Right,” she says slowly. “And what’s Cole like?”</p><p>“For a footballer, he’s fine,” Liam jokes with a quick grin. “No, for real though. I wouldn’t let Sara near him if I thought he wasn’t at least decent.”</p><p>Sofie smiles, wrapping her arms around Liam’s middle and squeezing him. “Aww, look it you, protecting your best friends from the players.”</p><p>“Pretty sure Sara could eat him alive,” he says with a drawl, but wraps his arms around her and pulls her up against him until her feet leave the ground. “But you, Sof—”</p><p>“Hey, no making-out on the clock!”</p><p>Liam swings her around, turning to face their shift supervisor; Sofie laughing into his neck. “You’re not the boss of me, Laura! I do what I want!”</p><p>“Yes, I am! And no, you don’t!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sara shows up just as Sofie’s getting home from work, and it leaves her standing in her bathroom with the shower running, staring at her phone and trying to figure out a way to tell Henry she’s bailing— no, not <em>bailing</em>, because there’s nothing going on, is there?</p><p>They’re <em>friends. </em></p><p>Right?</p><p><em>Right</em>.</p><p>Just because he… you know, thinks she’s <em>pretty,</em> doesn’t mean he wants to date her, or even like, <em>bang her again.</em></p><p>
  <em>Maybe he’s a hit and quit kind of guy, anyway. You don’t think you’re the only random hotel hook-up he’s ever had, do you?</em>
</p><p><em>Ugh,</em> she thinks, dropping her head back and staring at the ceiling before blowing out a steadying breath and telling herself, for the thousandth time, that she’s <em>happy</em> talking to him, that she <em>likes</em> him, even if she never… even if they never met in person again. He could be a friend. He <em>is</em> a friend.</p><p>One she doesn’t want to disappoint by not being around to Skype with tonight.</p><p>She thinks she’d rather spend the night talking to him through a stupid computer screen than going to this party.</p><p> <em>Ugh.</em></p><p>Unlocking her phone, Sofie pulls up his messages, starting another text and trying to make it sound as unrehearsed as possible.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Hey, so Sara really wants—</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p><em>Ugh, </em>no<em>. </em>She thinks and erases the whole thing.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Got invited to this party tonight, Sara’s got a thing for a frat guy that’s going to be there and I’m gonna go make sure she doesn’t get alcohol poisoning. Or you know, make more than one bad decision.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>So, rain check on tonight?</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p><em>Casual, </em>she thinks,<em> cool, friendly and normal. Check.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Sounds like fun.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Don’t worry about it, I’ve got Kal who would never fall asleep at the sound of my voice.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>He adds a smile emoji and Sofie laughs, putting her hand over her mouth to stifle it so Sara doesn’t hear.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>You’re the worst. Like the literal worst. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Nah. I’m… what do you say? </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I’m a gift, Sofie.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Sofie shakes her head, sending an eye roll emoji before biting her cheek and debating her next text, her fingers hovering before just… going for it. She <em>wants</em> to see him, there’s no way around it. It sits inside of her like a weird little ache.</p><p>It is, she knows now, absolutely possible to miss someone you barely know.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>What time do you think you’ll be going to bed?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Call me when you’re leaving the party, I can walk you home, yeah? Protect you from all those scary trees.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Biting back a smile, ignoring the flutter of her stomach, Sofie types back:</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Always trying to be gentleman, huh?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Who’s trying, I AM a gentleman.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>…At least my mum always says so.</strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Sofie laughs, burying her face in her hands to stifle it again, her heart ticking in her chest because seriously, how is he even <em>real</em>?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                The pounding on his hotel room door makes Kal jump up and bark, Henry spares a second to shush him as he heads to the door, grabbing Kal’s collar when he tries to shove past Henry’s legs, over-eager to see what must be so exciting on the other side of the door.</p><p>“Kal, <em>calm down,</em>” he orders, shushing the over-excited Akita again, holding back the mass of fur and muscle as he tries to get to the door. He expects a member of the hotel staff, or even someone from his management team, but not the face he opens the door to.</p><p>“Hank!” Simon Pegg hollers, and then kneels down and, in the same loud voice, “Kal-Cavill!”</p><p>He laughs, letting go of Kal’s collar and letting him bound excitedly at Simon.</p><p>“See, I heard a funny little rumour that it’s your dad’s birthday, and he had no plans to celebrate until he was back over the pond, and I thought, well, that just isn’t going to do, is it, Kal? No, it <em>isn’t</em>,” Simon declares, scratching and fluffing at his fur.</p><p>“I am flying out tomorrow,” he says, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms, looking down at Simon until the other man pushes to his feet, grinning at him. “And I’ll do something with my brothers in London before we hit Jersey.”</p><p>“Tomorrow’s not today, is it, Hank?” the other man says confidently and pushes past him into the room. “Now, Walker, your mission, if you choose to accept it…”</p><p>Henry laughs, letting the door shut as he follows Simon back into his room.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                The bar is down a few steps, off a side-street in downtown LA. The basement bar is quiet, dim-lit, all heavy wood and dark booths, billiard and pool tables, dart boards already filled with men and a few women. It’s quiet enough that no one approaches them, mostly men with beers in their hands or pool sticks, not looking twice at two more men coming out of the blinding, LA sunset and into the dark bar.</p><p>The waitress gives him a once-over, but if she recognises him, she doesn’t say anything; she’s pretty, around his age, if he had to guess, and there’s a second-too-long look when she hands him the bar menu that tells him she’s got an interest he could easily pursue if he felt inclined. “I’m Cadie, what can I get you guys?”</p><p> Henry looks to Simon, giving him a shrug. “You know this place.”</p><p>“Hop House?” Simon asks, pulling a considering face and then nods at the waitress when Henry agrees. “Hop House, please, love.”</p><p>Henry glances around the bar, trying not to look at his watch or his phone; he doesn’t want to know the time.</p><p>Doesn’t want to bother Sofie if she’s out having a good time.</p><p>(Although, in truth, there’s been nothing in his head since he read the word <em>party</em> and <em>frat boy</em> in her text, that hasn’t been caught up in imagining her drinking and dancing and— and like that video she sent him, pressed up against some boy, smiling at some boy, laughing with some boy— all dimple-cheeked, maybe making that hitch of a noise before pressing alcohol-sticky lips—)</p><p>“So, how’s the hunt for the, what was it, The Witch? Coming along?”</p><p>“Witcher,” he corrects, leaning back in his seat and shrugging, trying to push Sofie out of his brain. “Netflix series. Still getting the runaround.”</p><p>“That’s shite, mate,” Simon <em>tsks</em>. “You think it’ll stick, though?”                  </p><p>“I hope so, they’re still doing other auditions for the role, but they’ve not told me no, yet. So,” he pulls a considering face, lifting his hand and tilting it up and then down. “I’ll take that as a hard <em>maybe</em>.”</p><p>Simon laughs and Henry shifts in his seat, smiling and trying not to think about texting Sofie to check in.</p><p>She’s fine, she’s out having fun. She’s with friends. Not all frat boys are douchebags. (And really, the fuck is he going to do from all the way across the country?</p><p>Fucking <em>nothing, </em>is what.)</p><p>Not all frat boys are irredeemable little shites, right? He winces because he knows what <em>he</em> was like, just out of school, more confident than he’d ever been while <em>in</em> school, enjoying every second glance his way.</p><p>He hates the idea that Sofie might look twice at someone else. It gnaws at his stomach, turns his guts. Thinking about the way she flushes, the way her lashes look on her cheeks, the way she swallows all those nerves down, (hooked her finger in his shirt and dared him to do more.)</p><p>He’s fucked, he thinks. <em>Absolutely fucked</em>.</p><p>He stretches his spine, rubbing a hand through his hair like he can scratch her out of his thoughts, too.</p><p>The waitress heads back over with their pints, and for a brief flickering second, he thinks, just as she’s looking at him, that maybe he should just stop this whole fucking mess with Sofie. That he’s thirty-five now and should know better. That he’s thirty-five and she’s at a frat house party because that’s what she should be doing, shouldn’t she? Because she’s still twenty-one and enjoying her life and there’s no reason, no reason for him to be talking to her—</p><p><em>Talking,</em> he scoffs at himself, <em>it’s not even talking.</em></p><p>Texting, sending photos and videos and Skyping with her for fuck’s sake. Encouraging this… undefined <em>thing </em>between them; with a girl who is fourteen years too young for him. He could rationalise it a bit more if she was over twenty-five, if she was just a <em>bit</em> older—</p><p>But she isn’t.</p><p>He looks away from the waitress. Clinking his glass against Simon’s when he lifts his.</p><p>“To thirty-five,” he says with a smile. “Christ, that makes me feel old. Cheers.”</p><p>Henry snorts, because <em>yeah,</em> he thinks, <em>doesn’t it fucking just?</em> “Cheers, mate.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                 Liam sinks down beside her, jostling the couch as he sits heavily right at her side.</p><p>“For the thousandth time, Lee. I’m fine,” she says, tilting her head back against his arm as he curves his arm over her shoulders. He’s got a drink in his hand, a red solo cup just like everyone else does; he tilts it up, draining whatever was in it before tossing the cup towards the little coffee table in front of them with a flick of his wrist; it flips and lands right-side-up; Liam fist-pumps the air and Sofie rolls her eyes.</p><p>“You got mad skills, bro,” she drawls before looking back down at her phone.</p><p> “Come play another round of beer pong with me.”</p><p>“I max out at one round of beer pong, there’s only so much fun I can take in one evening.”</p><p>He groans, dropping his head back. “You’re way too sober.”</p><p>Sofie snorts. “I’m the sober-friend tonight, remember? The manager of mischief. The bad-decision-denier. The lineman.”</p><p>Liam laughs and grins, dropping his head back before groaning out:</p><p>“Seriously, she’s <em>fine, </em>Sof. I told you, Cole’s decent. He’s like, best friends with his <em>mom</em>. He’s just also a bit of a meathead. Sara is totally fine. Seriously.”</p><p>Sofie pulls a doubting face, looking back over to Sara, who’s saying something in Cole’s ear as he leans down, his arm braced behind her on the wall.</p><p>It’s kinda cute.</p><p>“Beer pong. <em>Please.</em>”</p><p><em>Ugh,</em> she sighs, “Fine, but you’re getting me a better drink,” she says, draining her cup and tossing it onto the table, watching it flip and land right side up and laughing when Liam holds his fist out.</p><p>“Mad skills, bro,” he drawls, waiting for Sofie to bump him back before pulling her up and off the couch and towards the next room. “To the beer pong!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sofie leans her forehead on the back of Liam’s shoulder, the world a little spiny around her. Or she’s moving.</p><p>She’s pretty sure it’s just the kitchen moving, not her.</p><p> Her phone screen is too bright and she squints, scrolling through Instagram behind Liam’s back while he stands between her knees as she sits on the kitchen counter. He’s chatting to a group of guys on his soccer team, but it’s getting late and the last round of shots made her world a little fuzzy and she thinks she’s ready to call it.</p><p>She knocks her foot lightly against the cupboards beneath the counter, thinking maybe it’s the warmth of Liam’s body that’s making her more tired than she should be as she stifles a yawn.</p><p>She scrolls through Instagram, occasionally glancing up at where she knows Sara is, keeping an eye on her and making sure she’s still okay and still enjoying herself with Cole.</p><p>She’s already flipped through her friends’ accounts, liking some of the pictures Liam and Sara took tonight, posting one of her own of her and Sara from earlier when they were getting ready… and now she’s just scrolling through random posts when she comes across a picture of Henry. She taps on it and sees it’s a fan post that had tagged his account, wishing him a Happy Birthday.</p><p>Pulling in a breath, Sofie sit’s straighter, scrolling down and reading the short blurb beneath the picture.</p><p>
  <em>Happy Birthday to this gorgeous man! </em>
</p><p><em>What the fuck,</em> she thinks and keeps scrolling down, finding another birthday wish a few posts later:</p><p>
  <em>Happy Birthday to our sexy Superman! May 5<sup>th, </sup>1983!</em>
</p><p><em>Oh my God</em>, she thinks. <em>It isn’t? </em></p><p>She checks the date, because, it isn’t, right? She didn’t just bail on him on his <em>birthday?</em></p><p>
  <em>It is.</em>
</p><p><em>Oh, no,</em> she breathes out, her stomach sinking. She totally bailed on him on his fucking <em>birthday.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                His phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out after downing the dregs of his second beer. Laughing at the way Simon’s hands move as he tells Henry about filming his first project and how they ‘winged it’ in a way he doesn’t think would ever fly now.</p><p>Sofie's name pops up on his screen, but her message is a screenshot, a photo of himself from Instagram, a bright<em> Happy Birthday</em> text plastered across it, a fan-photo tagging him for his birthday.  Sofie's text comes through a second later.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>!!! Excuse you?!!</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>His lips twitch and he types back,</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>It’s no big deal. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Yes it is!! Ommg</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>How’s the party going?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>We were supposed to skype!</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I bailed on you!</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I’so ssorry! feel terrivble</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>A little drunk, huh?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I spent the whole night crying into Kal’s fur. It was a very sad birthday.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He means it as a joke, but when she doesn’t respond, he types out:</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>I was kidding. I met up with a friend. We’re out having a few drinks. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>How’s your party?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>He waits a beat, tapping the side of his phone; <em>come on, Sofie, </em>he thinks,<em> answer.</em></p><p>“So, who’s our lucky bonny bird?”</p><p>“What?” he says, looking up from his phone and at Simon’s narrow-eyed smirking face.</p><p>“C’mon, Hank. I know that face. <em>That</em> is a smitten face if I’ve ever seen one.”</p><p>Henry opens his mouth, shuts it, pulling in a breath as he rubs a hand over his jaw, scratching at his stubble. “There’s not…It’s…” he blows out the breath. “Sort of, yeah.”</p><p>“<em>Sort of</em>,” Simon parrots. “What’s sort of about it?”</p><p>“It’s complicated. She’s… different.”</p><p>“Same one from Cinemacon?”</p><p>At Henry’s surprised look, Simon laughs, flagging down the waitress for another drink. “Don’t know how to tell you, mate, you aren’t that subtle. She looked cute though.”</p><p>“She is,” he says easily, readily, a simple fact of a very <em>un</em>-<em>simple</em> situation.  He pushes out a breath and decides to just… let it out. “She’s also twenty-one.”</p><p>Simon blinks. “Ah. The <em>Complicated </em>bit.”</p><p>Henry nods. “Yeah. Just a bit, eh?”</p><p>Simon pulls a considering face, shrugging his shoulder. “How’d you meet?”</p><p>“New York, she was visiting the city the same time I was. Same hotel. We… met in the gym.”</p><p>Simon snorts, “Of course you did, you fit freak.”</p><p>The waitress slides over, bringing another two beers and a side of chips.</p><p>Simon digs in as soon as they’re set down. “So, what’s the problem?”</p><p>His eyebrows climb his forehead, because isn’t it obvious?</p><p>“Other than me being thirty-five?” Henry frowns, taking a too-large gulp of his beer. “We hooked up. That’s all it should have been, you know?”</p><p>“But it’s obviously not, yeah?”</p><p>He nods. “I honestly have no fucking idea what it is. She’s… I don’t know. Hard to forget.”</p><p>Simon waggles a brow, a teasing smirk on his face; Henry shakes his head but feels his own smile grow. “Yeah, that too.”</p><p>“So…” Simon drags out, his lips twitching as he reaches for his beer. “What’s the problem, Hank? If you obviously… enjoyed each other and there’s obviously something there… what’s the snag?”</p><p>“I can’t date her, Simon. I can’t offer her anything remotely stable. I’m flying back home tomorrow. Durrell’s in a week and then— I mean, fuck, we’re leaving on the press tour in a month? How many countries are we going to be in?”</p><p>“Sounds like a lot of reasons not to, you’re right,” the other man nods, shifting in his seat and leaning back against the booth, dragging the chips closer to his hand and stuffing a few in his mouth. “But, honestly now, Hank, you must have reasons you want to. Otherwise, this wouldn’t be such a difficult decision would it?”</p><p>He huffs, taking another too large gulp of his beer. Wincing as he swallows. “Fourteen years is a bit fucking much, innit? Even just for having a bit of fun.”</p><p>Simon shrugs. “Wife’s older than me by eleven.”</p><p>“Except you're both well past fuckin’ twenty.”</p><p>Simon gives him a look. “Yes, thank you, young padawan. I am aware I am old as shite. No need to be a prick about it.”</p><p>Henry laughs, shaking his head. “Seriously. If you’d met your wife at twenty, you think it would have worked out?”</p><p>“I was a right pillock at twenty, wasn’t I? She would’ve fuckin’ hated me.”</p><p>Henry lifts a hand, tilting his pint towards Simon like, <em>see, exactly my point—</em>but Simon lifts a finger.</p><p>“But— <em>fuckin’ but—</em> I would’ve fuckin’ tried, Hank. I would’ve tried to be what she needed, same way I do now. ‘Cause, seriously, she’s still so far out of my fuckin’ league—” he laughs and Henry joins in, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. “I still have no idea why the bloody fuck she’s with me. But I would’ve tried for her, and I think that matters more than just…” he pulls a face, mulling his words. “Waiting until you think you’re all ready.”</p><p>Simon snorts, shaking his head before taking another mouthful of beer, swallowing before he says: “I mean, who’s ever really ready for anything, eh? You’ll never know unless you try.”</p><p>Henry nods because it’s true. Sometimes you just have to tie that rope around your stomach, check your fucking harness and fucking <em>jump</em>.</p><p>Gravity doesn’t care if you’re ready.</p><p>“Still,” he says, running his thumb along the condensation on his glass, watching the bubbles fizz and float, bubbling up inside. “I don’t know.”</p><p>“Come on,” Simon says, slapping his hand down on the table with a hollow plat. “Round of arrows?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                They play two rounds of darts, joining in with another group of men as the night goes on. His head gets a little fuzzy and it’s easier to forget that Sofie hasn’t answered him for a few hours now… but it’s still there in the back of his head in between rounds; a dull little itch of doubt and nerves and worry.</p><p>He hopes she’s safe.</p><p>It’s nearing the end of the third round, the bar busier than it was a few hours ago, a little darker lit with the music a bit louder; he’s laughing at a joke one of the men made when his phone goes off in his pocket, vibrating against his thigh.  </p><p>He pulls it out, taking a swig of his beer and looking down at his phone.</p><p>
  <em>Sofie sent you a video message.</em>
</p><p>He frowns, his stomach tensing and nerves pricking as he thinks about the last video message she sent him— he isn’t sure if he wants another one of her dancing with someone else.</p><p>Swiping his thumb across the screen, he squints at his phone in the dark, lowering the brightness and glancing around before he hits play.</p><p>It’s shaky at first, and then it settles, the video showing Sofie in a dim-lit kitchen, her hand coming off her phone like she’s balancing it on something, making sure it’s sitting right. She frowns at the camera, her mouth moving—</p><p>He hits pause, locking his phone before nudging Simon in the side. “Back in a bit, phone call.”</p><p>Simon’s eyebrow does this thing that tells him he knows exactly what’s important enough to pull Henry away, but he doesn’t say anything, fluffing his hand in dismissal.</p><p>Henry grabs a water from the bar before he heads out, stepping out into the heavy, warm LA night air, the street lit by the orange-glow of the street lights. He leans against the side of the building, just out of range of the two people out smoking on the sidewalk.</p><p>He drinks half the water before he lets himself open his phone, trying to clear his head. When he gets the video open again, he has to lift it pretty close to his face to hear her over the din of the street, the passing cars and the people still out and moving around in the area around the bar.</p><p>Sofie frowns at her phone, her hand hesitating in front of it. “Stay,” she says, squinting a little at it the same way Henry is at his phone. His lips twitch because he’s pretty sure she’s a little drunk, too.</p><p>Her hair is down, wavy and a little messy, like that night he took her to the club, but she’s got a bit more makeup on than normal; wearing a loose-knit white sweater that hangs dangerously low off one shoulder, showing the dip of her collarbone, the slope of her shoulder, a thin little strip of black fabric that catches his eyes, standing out against her skin and disappearing just as it turns to something lacy over that soft slope towards her breast.</p><p>He thinks about her underwear.</p><p>He’s definitely <em>not</em> going to think about her underwear right now.</p><p>(Later, probably.)</p><p>“Hi,” she says, her voice tinny and a little distant, she reaches off camera for a second and then there’s a weird flickering-orange glow that takes a second for him to makes sense of –</p><p>And Sofie’s holding what looks like a cinnamon bun in front of her on the counter, one little pink birthday candle sticking out of the top of it, glowing in a hazy, orange hue that paints her in warm colours and makes his stomach do this fucking <em>flip</em> as she smiles at it and then looks up to the camera, all doe-eyed and dimple-cheeked.</p><p>“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me it was your birthday,” she says, pushing out her bottom lip. “That’s such a dick move.”</p><p>She moves the cinnamon bun a little closer to that camera, tilting it so he can see it. “So I got you this, and I know you’re all like, blah diet and bulking blah, because you know, actor and all that, and your body is like… you know, <em>ten-out-ten-would-bang</em>—”</p><p>She laughs, her face scrunching with it, making some sort of weird finger gun with her fingers. “Or more like, ten out of ten, would bang <em>again.</em>”</p><p><em>She’s definitely drunk</em>, he thinks, breathing out a quiet laugh, glancing around him at the LA side street. The passing car light everything up in strips before fading again and he looks back at his phone.</p><p>He watches her on the screen, at the way the candle flickers when she picks up the cinnamon bun. “But you’re, you know, not here to eat it. So, I will. Because it’s delicious and I’m a little drunk and I literally debated buying a whole ass cake, but nothing’s open and while I can totally make one, it’s…” she turns her head, looking at something, “Almost two here and like, that’s a lot of effort on a guy you only banged once, you know?”</p><p><em>Definitely drunk.</em> He tries to hold in a smile, rubbing his fingers over his mouth as she goes on.</p><p>“I mean, twice, I guess. Or like, more than that if we count the like, rounds the first night,” she picks at the side of the cinnamon bun and sticks her finger in her mouth, licking it clean and grinning. “Which I guess I could, but I’m not. I’m going to say once because it was like one whole… one whole <em>event.”</em></p><p>She laughs, all bright and loose. “It was definitely an <em>event.</em>”</p><p><em>Jesus,</em> he thinks, failing to hold his smile at all.</p><p>“So I’m totally gonna eat this for you, Cavill. Because you didn’t tell me it was your birthday and it’s what you deserve,” she pouts and shakes her head at the camera. “No cinnamon bun for you, jerk-face.”</p><p>She giggles, actually, full-on <em>giggles </em>and it kills him just a little watching her.</p><p>When she looks at him— at her phone, really, but it feels like she’s looking at him. “This is probably really stupid, huh? I’m probably gonna regret it in the morning, but…” she swallows, blinking at him, the candle still flickering over her face.</p><p>“Happy birthday,” she says, her smile small and a little soft, her eyes bright, lit by the candle. “Make a wish?”</p><p>He doesn’t make a wish, but Sofie pulls in a soft breath and closes her eyes, blowing out the candle and leaving her in just the dim light coming from under the kitchen cabinets around her.</p><p>When she smiles again, she plucks the little candle from the top of the cinnamon bun and drops it on the counter before lifting the pastry to her mouth and taking a large bite of it.</p><p>She grins around it, her cheek full as she speaks. “So <em>good</em>. You’re seriously missing out.”</p><p>He watches her chew and swallow her mouthful, watches her tongue dart out, to chase the sugar from her lips before peaking again. He wonders what her mouth tastes like. cinnamon and sugar and <em>Sofie</em>.</p><p>“I hope you have a great birthday night, Henry, wherever you are right now instead of eating this like, amazing cinnamon bun birthday-cake-thing with me…” she lifts her thumb off the side of it, putting it into her mouth and scrapping off the icing on it, licking it clean. He tries, very hard, not to think about her tongue.</p><p>Sofie wiggles her fingers at him, her smile small, but one dimple deadly-deep in her cheek. “Night, birthday boy.”</p><p>She reaches forward, and he thinks: <em>don’t—</em> just as the video goes dark and he’s left with just the imprint of Sofie behind his eyelids.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Make a wish.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Wherever you are right now.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t think it matters exactly, where he is or what he wishes for… because he knows then, exactly where he <em>wants</em> to be.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>jokes.<br/>don't hate me though, next parts like, 90% done, so it'll be up once I finish editing it up :)</p><p>(Also disclaimer, I usually do more research when I write, but I will be Making Shit Up as I see fit because this is just... a fun fic, and I know literally nothing about Mister Pegg. He is a vehicle for plot progression. I'm not even sorry.)<br/>(I am a little sorry, mister pegg, ur a funny guy.)</p><p> </p><p>And once again, I love you all to death, and I wish I could churn out chapters quicker, but I hope your satisfied with longer ones instead, they'll probably all be around the 10k mark from now on.</p><p>You guys are the best. Thanks so much!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this chapter hella long</p><p>lets goooooooo</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>       </p><p>          Sofie rolls over in bed, tugging her duvet over her head with a groan as her alarm goes off, blaring behind her.</p><p><em>I can ignore it, </em>she thinks, trying to use the duvet to cover her ears a bit more. <em>I can ignore it.</em></p><p>She can’t.</p><p>With another groan, Sofie rolls over in her bed, smacking her arm out towards her phone before rolling herself back up in her blankets, phone and all.</p><p>In the safety of her duvet-cacoon, the memory of the night before is as bright as the trilling of her alarm was, ringing in her ears.</p><p><em>Ten out of ten, would bang again</em> <em>.</em></p><p><em>Ugh,</em> she thinks, <em>could you be any more desperate, Sofie?</em></p><p>Wiggling her hand and phone up to her face, but staying tangled up in her covers, she works up the courage to check her messages</p><p><em>It wasn’t that bad, </em>she tells herself, <em>you didn’t like, cry about missing him… </em>Or tell him how much she like-<em>likes </em>him because— thank <em>God</em>, Drunk-Sofie isn’t that stupid.</p><p>But still, her stomach tenses with nerves when she finally unlocks her phone; there’s one missed call, blinking on her screen, time-stamped around one in the morning— <em>after</em> Sofie had eaten that stupid cinnamon bun and done her teeth and dropped into her big, empty bed but— but <em>during</em>, she realises with a flush of embarrassment, the time she may have, <em>might</em> have, sort-of-kind-of-<em>maybe</em> been rubbing one out thinking about him.</p><p>Like, just a little.</p><p>She isn’t sure why she didn’t hear it… but then, that’s not true, she was too distracted by Fantasy-Henry in her ear telling her how good she was doing, his hands leaving bruises, his breath hot—<em> so good, Sofie, just like that—</em></p><p>All in her mind, of course.</p><p><em>Ugh,</em> she thinks and crosses her legs to ease the little throb of want that comes surging.</p><p>Tapping into her messages, she thumbs over his name.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Pretty sure you promised me better production quality of Sober-Sofie dancing. I’m not saying I’m disappointed.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>But I’m disappointed.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Sofie laughs, but she’s already reading the next message, sent twenty minutes later, wondering if he was out drinking as she looks at the time stamps.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Did you fall asleep already?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Lame, Sof. </em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>The last comes nearly an hour later and makes her heart trip and her laugh stop short.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Probably a little crazy to be jealous of a cinnamon bun, huh?</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie drops her phone, rolling herself back up in her duvet and curling up beneath it, squeezing her eyes shut trying to hold in that thing inside of her that lights up when she thinks of him… whenever he crosses that line between just friends and something else. She doesn’t know what it is, this full-body <em>fizz</em> that fills her up from the inside out.</p><p>She doesn’t know what’s going on between them. But she’s sure she doesn’t want to stop it.</p><p>
  <em>Jealous of a cinnamon bun.</em>
</p><p>Breathing out a laugh while throwing off her blankets, she grins at the ceiling before pushing out of bed and stumbling towards the bathroom; her mind rolling with ideas of sending him a video when she gets off of work tonight.</p><p>Something fun. Maybe Abba just to fuck with him.</p><p>
  <em>Jealous of a cinnamon bun.</em>
</p><p>She laughs at the idea of it, flicking into Spotify and loading up her Happy Jams before stripping off her pyjama shirt and stepping into the shower.</p><p>(If she lip-syncs, daydreams, pretends she’s already filming the video for him, no one has to know.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sofie taps her feet, moving a little as she dumps the summer blend coffee beans into the grinder, lip-syncing along to Labrinth on the shop’s speakers.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Gotta give a little more<br/>Woah, yes<br/>When the going gets tough<br/>Gotta give a little more<br/>Woah, yes<br/><br/></em>
</p><p>“Must be a Sofie playlist, huh?” Laura says coming out of the back with a stack of coffee cups and lids, shaking her head and smiling as Sofie sways a little more, doing a quick little shuffle dance while moving her shoulders and hips to the beat. “Practicing for Tik-Tok?”</p><p>Sofie shakes her head, grinning, still lip-syncing along, bumping her hip into her Laura’s.</p><p>Laura laughs, nudging her away. “Seriously. You get laid or something? You and Lee finally hook up?”</p><p>Sofie stops dancing, scrunching up her face. “Ew, no!”</p><p>Laura grins and shrugs. “Come on, like you guys don’t flirt all the time.”</p><p>“No! We d— gross, Laura, shut up. He’s literally my best friend.”</p><p><em>Uh-huh,</em> she says, and then laughs at Sofie’s twisted face. “Alright, alright, so seriously, you get laid? Win the lottery? Hit your head? You’re way, way too happy today. Especially since I know you were drinking last night. I saw those pics on Instagram.”</p><p>Sofie shrugs but feels a smile tugging at her lips again. She debates it for a second, just telling Laura about Henry— Not Henry exactly. Not the whole, <em>hey, I fucked Superman in New York and now we like, talk and text and I’m pretty sure I’m like, in serious amounts of like with him— </em></p><p><em>Not</em> all that.</p><p>Just the basics of it. The whole, meeting a guy, the long-distance,(is it even long distance if they aren’t like, anything?), the what-if, the stomach-twisting excitement of just… just hearing his voice through the distance of a fucking phone call.</p><p>Instead, with another lame shrug, she says: “Just in a good mood.”</p><p>Laura squints, looking doubtful. “Uh-huh.”</p><p>“Seriously,” she says, flapping her hand out and smacking Laura on her arm. “Don’t look at me like that.”</p><p>“Okay,” she drawls. “Sure, I’m just saying you look like—”</p><p>Grinning and hitting the pulse button on the blender, Sofie looks over at Laura and shakes her head, lifting her voice just enough for her to hear: <em>Sorry, can’t hear you!</em></p><p>Laura rolls her eyes, heading back into the kitchen as Sofie grins to herself and goes back to shuffling her feet and lip-syncing.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Gotta give a little more<br/>Woah, yes</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When the going gets tough<br/>Gotta give a little more</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Woah, yes</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p> <em>Awfully demanding for a guy who didn’t even tell me it was his birthday.</em></p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>If you can’t be demanding on your birthday, when can you?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>…I guess I’ll let it slide.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Very generous of you. Magnanimous, even.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I am a fair and generous friend.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Except with promised videos, huh?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Okay one, I never actually PROMISED. I implied. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Ah, she backtracks. I see how it is.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Okay, TWO, I don’t like you.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Lies.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Starting to see a pattern here, Chihuahua. All bark, no bite.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>A laugh bubbles out of her and she pushes her lips together quickly, pulling an awkward smile when Laura and Dev look over at her, both of them glancing at each other after, like <em>yeah, she’s crazy, what can you do.</em></p><p>She feels crazy.</p><p>
  <em>Jealous of a cinnamon bun. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ugh. Who says that?</em>
</p><p><em>He does</em>, her mind supplies helpfully. <em>Henry Cavill told you he was jealous of the cinnamon bun. Not of you, eating said cinnamon bun. But said cinnamon bun being </em>eaten<em>. By </em>you<em>.</em></p><p>Which is like,</p><p>
  <em>Woo-boy.</em>
</p><p>Sofie sends him a shocked-face emoji, followed by a series of exclamation marks. It’s stupid, she doesn’t care.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>You’re so rude. And mean. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Honesty hurts, doesn’t it?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I’m deleting you.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>No, you’re not.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I am.</em>
  </p>
  <p><strong> <em>Sure</em> </strong> <em>.</em></p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Sofie sends an angry emoji quickly, turning back to the counter when the bell jingles because she’s on cash and still at work and not like, getting paid to just text him all day. <em>Unfortunately</em>.</p><p>She feels her phone vibrate in her pocket, and it kills her she can’t check it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>          It’s barely noon and Sofie is already done with the day, she’s tired, Henry’s off doing some last-minute workout session with a trainer in LA before he flies home to London. Sara is still with Cole, her texts short and filled with exclamation points because he made her breakfast <em>(!!! protein pancakes!!!)</em> which is kinda cute, she can’t lie.</p><p>But time is moving so slowly she’s pretty sure the time on her phone may actually be going backwards.</p><p>When Laura pulls her off cash to replenish the cookie inventory, Sofie goes willingly. Syncing her phone to the speakers in the kitchen and flipping into his playlist, because she’s a <em>sap—</em></p><p>But it helps a little bit, she can’t lie, there’s something about listening to the same songs he does that makes her feel… closer to him. Or something.</p><p>Which is like, <em>corny on main, </em>but…</p><p>The truth.</p><p>(The <em>truth</em> is, she’s trying hard not to think about him heading home. About him being in London, about being five hours ahead instead of only three behind, about how he’ll be even farther after that…off to Jersey for Durrell… there’s this sinking little rock in her stomach, that the farther he gets, the more time between him and her… the more space and time he puts between New York and the girl he met there…</p><p>Will be easier and easier to forget.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>But she’s not thinking about all that.</p><p>So, it’s all good.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>          <strong><em>How’s work going?</em>     </strong></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie glances at the time, trying not to groan at it only being three-thirty, but glad, at least, he’s back from his ridiculously long training session.</p><p>Because seriously, it's been like <em>hours.</em></p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Decent, made some cookies, served some coffee, about to clean up some of the books lying around. Same old same old.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>When’s your flight, anyway?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Pretty soon. What time are you done work?</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>7, so you don’t even have to worry about walking me home.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>She cringes once she types it because the flight to London is like, over ten hours. Even if he boarded now, he wouldn’t land until what, three AM her time?</p><p><em>Guess that ends, too,</em> she thinks and then: <em>don’t be stupid, what did you think was going to happen? He’s still him, still Henry Cavill, still a celebrity who could go anywhere and do anything and he hasn’t—</em></p><p>He hasn’t even hinted at wanting to come see her, no matter those moments where she thinks there might be something more, something in his eyes or smile or—</p><p><em>Or nothing, </em>she tells herself. <em>Stop thinking about it.</em></p><p>When he doesn’t answer right away, Sofie pockets her phone, heading up to the second floor to start sorting and re-shelving some of the piles of books that somehow, for a place designed for people who like and apparently, <em>can</em> read, never end up back in the spots they belong to.</p><p>One of life’s greatest mysteries, she thinks, the universal inability of customers to put shit back where they got it.</p><p>When her phone vibrates as she’s putting away one of the carts of books, Sofie leans against the D-F shelf and pulls it out of her back pocket.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Still light out at seven there?</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><blockquote>
  <p><em>Yup, terrible kidnappers to try before sunset, I think.</em> <strong> <em><br/></em> </strong></p>
</blockquote><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em> Hm. Seen any strange white vans lately?</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie shakes her head, snorting.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Nothing. No full-size candy bar sightings, either. </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>She sends a sad face, pushing out her bottom lip even though he can’t see it.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Still seems risky. Your hair looks awful cute like that, I’m not sure if we should take that chance.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie blinks, frowning at her phone, rereading his text.</p><p>
  <em>Your hair looks awful cute like that.</em>
</p><p>She didn’t send him a picture, did she?</p><p><em>Wait, did I? </em>Scrolling back up, Sofie skims through the conversation, but there’s nothing… no pictures, just texts—</p><p>She touches one of the French-braided pigtails on her head and—</p><p>She looks up from her phone, turning her head and for some reason, she’s half expecting to see a camera or something that’s taken her picture, same way for him to see her— which is <em>stupid</em>, she knows, because she’s at work and there’s no camera on the second floor, but it’s the only thing that makes sense to her at that moment.</p><p>But— but there’s a man leaning against the shelves, his hands tucked into the pockets of a pair of dark-blue cargo pants, a ball cap low on his forehead— and Sofie blinks, her hand tightening on her phone.</p><p>She’s pretty sure she’s stopped breathing.</p><p>That’s not—</p><p>Henry’s mouth tilts into a crooked smirk. “Hey.”</p><p>Sofie straightens off the shelf, her mouth opens and then closes, watching as he does the same, pushing away from the shelf, his shoulders broad in a plain white t-shirt, an overnight bag slung over one shoulder. For a moment she’s caught by how much she feels like she’s back in New York, like they’re about to head out, linked by a headphone splitter, off to run the trail in Central Park.</p><p>But they’re not.</p><p>He walks over to her, as she grips her phone, staring at him and stuck, rooted to the spot.</p><p>He’s not <em>real.</em></p><p>She hit her head, right?</p><p>(That’s all this is, she’s still on the floor of that hotel gym, half-concussed and still dreaming.)</p><p>Right?</p><p>Henry was just on her phone— no, not <em>on</em> her phone— he was <em>in</em> LA— working out— no, flying out—to London—he’s—</p><p><em>What</em>?</p><p>He steps in front of her and Sofie’s pretty damn sure she isn’t breathing, tilting her head to look up at him because he’s tall and broad and <em>here.</em></p><p>In front of her.</p><p>“What—”</p><p>His smirk slips into a smile, his eyes crinkling with it. He steps closer, Sofie tilts her head a little higher, pulling in a breath, her mouth opening again— but she can’t pull her eyes away from his, even though half her mind is screaming, <em>do something, say something—</em></p><p>
  <em>Is this real?</em>
</p><p>While the other half is just stuck, caught, jammed-up by the sight of him in front of her.</p><p>She hears the shift of his clothing, the shift of his arm, but all she sees is the little shifts of his eyes, moving over her face like he’s looking for something.</p><p>His finger hooks into the front of her long-sleeved shirt, his knuckle pressing warmly, right in the centre of her chest.</p><p>Her breath catches, his eyes shift over her face and then lower.</p><p>“I figured it was my turn,” he says, and pushes just a little, his knuckle pressing against her chest until Sofie stumbles back a step, her back colliding with the bookshelf behind her.</p><p>It shocks a little breath out of her. “What?”</p><p>She feels stupid, like her mind is lagging five steps behind, like she’s still trying to process the reality of him in front of her; her hands still clutched on her phone because he was there, wasn’t he. Texting her. Through it. From like, <em>far away.</em></p><p>Not here.</p><p>He’s in LA.</p><p>Right?</p><p>Henry leans down, his knuckle pressing just a little harder against her chest, the shelves dig into her back, her neck twinges from looking up, but he’s leaning closer—</p><p>And then all there is, all there is, is his body heat, the weight of his body so close to hers—like gravity, a pull—his cologne, that spiced, woodsy scent she remembers, (found on her skin and hair and bedsheets)— and Sofie hitches a little breath as he ducks his head, his nose brushing her cheekbone, his breath warm—</p><p>“To make the first move,” he says, and it’s a little rough in way that sparks inside of her with memories of him on top of her, inside of her— all those things she dreams about, pulls into fantasies—and then Sofie’s whole body light up at just the brush of his stubble, the soft press of his lips against her cheek.</p><p>He lingers for just a second, his breath brushes warm, Sofie’s eyes flutter shut for just a second…</p><p>And then he’s straightening up and tugging at one of her braids, that crooked smile back on his face.</p><p>When he steps back, Sofie blinks, her mind reeling, watching him move away, still smirking, tucking his hand back into his pocket as he turns to leave.</p><p>Reality comes crashing back just as he’s about to leave the aisle.</p><p>Sofie grabs a book off the cart, some dog-eared paperback and chucks it at his back; it smacks into him and plops to the floor.</p><p>“That’s <em>it?” </em>she chokes out, and doesn’t even care how breathless and desperate the pitch of her voice is.</p><p>Henry stops and turns back, his eyebrows tilting up as he looks down and sees the book, but he smiles that crooked, stupid-attractive smile as he picks up the book and looks at her across the narrow book stacks.</p><p>He tosses the book back towards her and she fumbles but catches it against her chest, her cheeks flushing just a little because there’s a laugh sitting in the corner of his eyes and the shape of his mouth, but his eyes are… are heavy and warm and filled with something else.</p><p>“Until seven, yeah,” he says with a little shrug, but his eyes sink over her one more time before he turns to go, and Sofie’s stuck staring at the place he was, gripping onto the book she threw at him, her cheek tingling, her pulse <em>pounding</em>, her body in that jittery, wobbly stage of: <em>did that just happen?</em></p><p>She drops the book on cart, her hand coming up to her cheek, her breath puffs out of her in a little uneven laugh.</p><p>
  <em>That didn’t just happen?</em>
</p><p><em>Oh my God, </em>she thinks, her mind spinning and tripping and reeling away from her.</p><p>Her phone vibrates, Sofie scrambles to look at it, her fingers, hands, <em>whole</em> <em>body</em> all wobbly with surprise and nerves and that stupid little press of his lips against her cheek.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Get back to work. I’ll see you in three hours.</em> </strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Sofie’s laugh trips out of her, high and reedy and disbelieving.</p><p>
  <em>Oh my God.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That didn’t just happen?</em>
</p><p>It takes her longer than she will admit, to get her mind to come back together, to get her body to start working, to not just stay pressed against that shelf and grinning at nothing.</p><p>But when she does, the only thing she can think about is <em>seven.</em></p><p>
  <em>I’ll see you in three hours.</em>
</p><p><em>Oh my God, </em>she thinks, and looks down at herself as she thinks about everything that <em>could, might, maybe, hopefully will, </em>happen in three hours.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Oh my God.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>          Rushing through the cart, Sofie takes off down the stairs, skipping the last two and ignoring the look she gets from a customer sitting in one of the chairs near the staircase, rushing over to where Laura is behind the counter.</p><p>Reality hits her as soon as she crosses behind the counter and she comes up short, glancing at the older girl to see if she says anything about who was just in the building.</p><p>Waiting for the:</p><p>
  <em>Holy shit, Sofie, did you see who just came in?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Did you see him?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Was that really Henry Cavill?</em>
</p><p>But Laura is just making a drink for a customer, only glancing up when Sofie stares at her for another too-long, stuck second.</p><p>“What?” she says, blinking at Sofie, her eyebrows tilting up when she doesn’t answer right away. Sofie glances the store, but no one seems to be whispering or giggling or holding their phones like they just snapped pictures of the man that just came in and… and kissed her cheek.</p><p>“Sofie, what?”</p><p>She stutters back into movement. “You mind if I take my break?”</p><p>Laura frowns, squinting a little at her. “Uh, yeah, sure. Are you alright?”</p><p>Sofie nods, probably a little too quickly. “Yup, just gotta run home for a minute. You’ll be okay with Dev?”</p><p>“Yeah, go on. He’s just going through a drop off in the back. It’s all good.”</p><p>Sofie nods again, stuck still for another second, but when Laura’s eyebrows tilt up again, her face full of, <em>well? Aren’t you leaving?</em> and she turns on her heel and heads out of the shop, the bell jingling loudly behind her.</p><p>She tries not to run home, glancing around her at the people on the street, somehow convinced he might pop out at any second, that he might see her running home—</p><p>Because he’s <em>here.</em></p><p>
  <em>He’s here.</em>
</p><p>In Maine, in Portland. Right here where Sofie is because he came to see her. He hopped on a plane and flew to Maine and not London</p><p>He—</p><p>He’s here and they’re going to have sex, aren’t they?</p><p><em>Absolutely</em>, she thinks, <em>literally going to jump him, climb him like a ladder, jump his bones, get boned, banged, fucked—</em></p><p>Sofie breathes a laugh, jogging across the street and darting around other people, heading for her house because he’s— he’s here.</p><p>
  <em>Until seven, yeah.</em>
</p><p>In the moment, there’s nothing like the feeling inside of her, there’s no hesitation, no spared thoughts, no <em>should-I-shouldn’t-I</em> of hooking up with him again. It’s all gone, buried beneath the thrill of him coming to see her.</p><p><em>Friends can totally do this,</em> she thinks. <em>Absolutely.</em></p><p>(If there’s any doubt inside of her, it’s stuck beneath the tingle in her cheek, in the memory of his stubble and that warm, low sound of his voice, <em>I figured it was my turn</em> <em>to make the first move.</em>)</p><p>Her house has never seemed so far away, she glances at her phone, even knowing she has thirty minutes, taking her front steps two at a time, pushing into her house, darting up the stairs and stripping off her clothes as she goes.</p><p>Grabbing her gym bag, Sofie checks for the little toothbrush and toothpaste, the deodorant she always keeps in there and tosses it all on her bed.</p><p>She cranks on her shower, careful to avoid getting her hair wet and rushes through the quickest shower of her life, shaving and scrubbing at her skin until she feels rubbed raw and then dries off even quicker, rubbing herself with lotion. She grabs new underwear, a nicer pair with a little lace trim and a matching bra; struggling into them, her skin still sticky with lotion.</p><p>It catches her off guard a little, as she’s pulling on the new underwear, that it’s a little like that night he took her out, that first night, where she was so sure and unsure of where the night would go; flipping and tilting between the awareness of wanting to hook up with him and the fear that she’d gotten it all wrong and he didn’t want her the same way.</p><p>The same feeling itches at the back of her mind for a second, but—</p><p>But she thinks about texting him, about Skype— about his face through her screen, his voice through her phone, his eyes the first time they Skyped. The way he looked at her, the stretched out bit of silence when they first saw each other again.</p><p><em>That feeling,</em> she thinks, somehow said more about that <em>thing</em> between them than anything he’s ever said to her when they were <em>actually</em> together in New York.</p><p>
  <em>Didn’t it?</em>
</p><p>(His eyes had moved over her, his smile slow, wide and warm, his voice low and just bordering that edge of rough that makes her toes curl, looking at her through the computer screen.)</p><p>Sofie pushes out a breath, closing her eyes and trying to bring herself back together, thinking about his face, his eyes, his lips on her cheek…feeling like she’s about to fly apart, burst into pieces… <em>he’s here, </em>she tells herself. <em>He came to see you.</em></p><p>
  <em>He came to see you.</em>
</p><p>It’s a battle getting her jeans back on and fixing the long sleeves of her shirt, but she manages it after a few curses, a few irritated, aggravated hopping tugs to get everything in place.</p><p>She’s back out the door twenty minutes later, her bag on her shoulder, her hands a little unsteady, her body a little uneven, her cheek… still tingling.</p><p>
  <em>He came to see you.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>              Make the first move.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>(His knuckle against her skin, the hook of his finger, the same thing she did in the elevator, tugging him toward her, daring him to do more—)</p><p> </p><p>He told her that, didn’t he? At the end of that first day of texting:</p><p>
  <em>And it took me a long time to figure out how to text this girl back, seeing as I think I messed up not texting her sooner. And this would be the second time she’s been the one to make the first move. Maybe even the third.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You know what I’m saying?</em>
</p><p>She had told him that she had, but she’s not sure she’s ever really thought about it; it never felt like a first move, or a move at all, more like a spilling want, a climbing desperation, a need to do something , to close that little gap between them that was filled up with almost<em>.</em></p><p>
  <em>Almost.</em>
</p><p>Sofie pulls in a breath, looking at herself one last time in her work’s bathroom mirror after reapplying deodorant and perfume and brushing her teeth…</p><p>It’s stupid, she knows, even as she does it, because he’s already seen her, sweaty, post-workout, soaking wet, post-shower, (undone beneath him, post-fuck) but she still does it all anyway, a little tremble in her hands that makes her hold her breath, close her eyes and count to ten.</p><p>It’s seven o’clock, right on the dot.</p><p>Letting out the breath, she steps back, blinking at herself one more time before turning on her heel; <em>now or never,</em> she thinks.</p><p>She says goodbye to Laura and Dev, who are leaning against the back counter and chatting; they give a little wave in goodbye and a <em>see you next shift</em> as she heads out the door into the sunset-filled streets outside.</p><p>Squinting a little, Sofie reaches into her pocket for her phone when she catches sight of him, leaning against the wall between Second Chapter and the store next door; that black KC cap on his head, his phone in his hand. He’s in a navy v-neck pullover and dark jeans, she realises, which means he changed, which means, earlier, when he showed up in that t-shirt, with his bag on his shoulder, he… what? Came right to her from the airport?</p><p>Did he?</p><p>Sofie swallows when their eyes meet.</p><p>Her cheek tingles.</p><p>“Hey,” he says lowly, his eyes sinking over her. Something else tingles, and it makes her toes curl in her sneakers.</p><p>“Hi,” she says back, sinking her teeth into the inside of her cheek and trying to think of something more to say as her heartbeat ticks up for no reason; it’s just a <em>hey.</em></p><p>She licks her lips, pulling in a breath, tilting her head to the side, in the direction of her home, even though she realises, for all that he has ‘walked’ her home before, he wouldn’t actually have any clue where she lives. “Want to walk me home?”</p><p>His smile is slow and pleased. “Very much.”</p><p>Sofie stays still until he steps closer, until he’s nearly right in front of her, but she turns at the last second, just before she gives in to the urge to just… hug him, or something. Touch him to make sure he’s real and she isn’t just dreaming.</p><p>Or concussed.</p><p><em>God</em>, she hopes he’s real.</p><p>Swallowing heavily and feeling him fall into place beside her, she can’t help but notice that his long-legged strides are being kept slow to stay in pace with hers; his body-heat like this… this feeling along her side, like the brush of his arm, his navy pullover pushed up over his elbows and—</p><p>And she can’t help but feel overly aware of him beside her.</p><p>She forgot how small she felt next to him, and it makes her insides tight and hot and heavy.</p><p><em>Don’t think about it,</em> she tells herself, <em>don’t think about it. </em></p><p>But it’s impossible not to, it’s been in her head since she saw him, since he pressed his mouth to her cheek and she inhaled his cologne, his body heat, a brush of his breath and lips and—</p><p>
  <em>My turn.</em>
</p><p>Neither one of them say anything; the city is bustling around them, painted gold by the sunset. Weirdly, she finds herself hoping that he likes Maine, though she isn’t sure why it matters.</p><p>It’s not like he’s <em>staying.</em></p><p>(She pushes that thought away as soon as it pops up.)</p><p>Sofie glances up at him, at the underside of his jaw, he looks down at her and his lips quirk, just a little as she looks away. Her heart thuds, his arm brushes hers and, in the quiet (mostly quiet, outside of the other people out walking and the sound of the passing cars) his fingers find hers, and it’s… it’s a quiet thing, too. The threading of their fingers. A slow brush of his skin against hers that makes her heart double-time like she’s run a mile or like, thirteen.</p><p>It makes it impossible to think about anything else.</p><p>She isn’t sure if the trek home feels longer or shorter than normal. <em>Somehow</em>, she thinks, it’s both all at once. The anticipation of being alone with him, of being at <em>home</em> with him makes her stomach tense with nerves, (with eagerness and impatience, too.)</p><p>The street changes from city-strip to side-road to the tree-lined, quieter street of Sofie’s home.</p><p>And then they’re there. At her narrow, tall, red-bricked, iron-gated, town-home. It’s six steps inside the gate, up five steps to the front door, her hand slipping out of his as she reaches for her keyring.</p><p>It’s a weird sort of Deja-vu. She half expects him to take the key(card), to press her into the wall to—</p><p><em>I’ve been thinking about you all day, Sofie, and I would really, </em> <em>very</em> <em> much, like to fuck you again.</em></p><p>Her heart skips.</p><p>She hopes to God she’s not dreaming.</p><p>“So… this is home,” she says awkwardly, stepping in and moving to the side, letting the door shut behind him as he steps in after her.</p><p>His eyes move over the front entrance, down the hall towards the kitchen, to the living room just to the left of them, up the stairs ahead, and back to her.</p><p>Sofie looks away, toeing off her sneakers and nudging them closer to the wall, glancing up at him when she sees him doing the same in her peripherals.</p><p>He looks <em>good</em>, she thinks, the pullover stretches across his chest and shoulders, not form-fitting, not like he dressed to show off, she thinks, just that he’s broad and thick and the fabric stretches in all the right places.</p><p>He looks good. Bigger, maybe.</p><p>It’s fucking weird having him here. Henry belonged to New York. To a hotel room. (To her TV screen, her phone screen, an Instagram account and a Google search.)</p><p>To a one-off, one-chance, never-again—</p><p>She almost wants to pinch herself to make sure she’s awake. But she knows, really, in her dreams, she’s a lot more bold, he’s more heavy-handed, more naked, more—</p><p><em>God</em>, she thinks, <em>so much for climbing him like a ladder, jumping his bones, getting boned—</em></p><p>Sofie chews her lip a little, watching him. He looks over at her after he places his shoes next to hers, neatly. Lined up.</p><p><em>It’s kinda stupidly attractive he did that,</em> she thinks.</p><p>“Do you want a drink or something?” she asks, telling herself that that wasn’t as lame sounding as she feels it is.</p><p>Henry nods, his eyes moving over her face. “Sure. Some water would be good.”</p><p>Sofie sinks her teeth into her cheek and pulls in a breath; stepping around him and leading him down the hall towards the kitchen, berating herself for thinking this would be like New York— that he’d just… press her into a wall and she’d forget everything else.</p><p>So much for <em>that.</em></p><p>It’s bright in the house, the setting sun spilling in through the glass doors that lead into the little backyard behind her home, painting everything in this dreamy sort of orange that makes everything feel a little less real. Until she has to look back and make sure, just…  make sure he’s there.</p><p>She isn’t sure when it’s going to settle in that he’s really <em>here.</em></p><p>He’s looking at her, his eyes meet hers and Sofie feels something spark in her stomach, right behind her belly button.</p><p>
  <em>I think it’s my turn.</em>
</p><p>(His finger in the front of her shirt, tugging her forward, and then his knuckle pushing her back, his breath warm on her cheek—)</p><p>
  <em>My turn.</em>
</p><p>She has no idea what to do. She thinks of all the options, that boldness she found in the club, in the elevator, outside her room at the hotel— all of it hinging on the want of the man in front of her now. Standing in her kitchen.</p><p><em>But it was easier,</em> she thinks, <em>so much easier before.</em></p><p>When he wasn’t also the guy she’s been Skyping with, texting, talking, laughing at and <em>with,</em> and— and <em>getting to know.</em></p><p>She wonders if he’s done all this before and hates the thought as soon as it pops into her head.</p><p>Is this what all hook-ups are like? Pseudo-friendships that get stuck between a relationship and just sex?</p><p>Is that what they’re doing?</p><p>Sofie pulls down a glass, rocking up on her toes to grab one from the cupboard, and trying to force her thoughts into a happier place:</p><p>He’s here.</p><p>He’s standing behind her in her kitchen.</p><p>Maybe they can do the whole friends-with-benefits thing.</p><p>She can handle that, right?</p><p>He’s leaning against the kitchen island, his KC cap off, sitting beside him on the counter, his hair just a little wavy as he tugs his hand through it, watching her as she holds the empty glass in her hand and steps around the thick of his body taking up a weird amount of space in her kitchen… in a way that catches her off guard, because it’s usually just Sofie and her mother, or Sofie’s friends here, and while Liam is probably nearly the same height as Henry… he’s nowhere near the same size.</p><p>Henry takes up a lot of space<em>.</em> A lot of <em>her space.</em></p><p> She looks away, pressing the glass against the water dispenser on the outside of the fridge, overly aware of him behind her, of that feeling of being looked at—</p><p><em>My turn, </em>he’d said.</p><p>Sofie swallows, and takes the pressure off the water dispenser, it clicks off and the kitchen goes quiet when the water stops streaming into the glass.</p><p>Too quiet.</p><p>She turns to face him.</p><p>He’s still just leaning there, his arms crossed, with his stupid big body and his stupid big muscles and his stupid, rude face—</p><p>His eyes flick to the glass, back up to her face…  Sofie lifts the glass, bringing it to her mouth and taking a mouthful of the water.</p><p>He watches her the whole time.</p><p>Sofie swallows, licks her lips and holds out the glass.</p><p>His eyes move from her face to the glass and back again, his fingers brushing hers when he takes the glass, the muscles in his arms shifting as he lifts it, tilts it, his Adam’s apple moving in his throat as he takes one large mouthful before setting the glass down beside him on the kitchen island with a dull clink of glass against marble.</p><p><em>My turn, </em>he’d said.</p><p>Sofie leans against the fridge, looking up at him, her heart pounding so loud she thinks he must be able to hear it.</p><p>He reaches out, his finger hooking into the front of her shirt, just like before, tugging her forward. Her heart pounds harder, her breath shallow and uneven, limbs jittery and tense and somehow, loose all at once.</p><p>She takes a half-step forward, pulled into him, but Henry turns them, his knuckle pressing against her chest, warm against her skin, turning and pushing her back until her back hits the counter.</p><p>He stands there for a moment, his eyes moving from his hand to her face. “How was the end of your shift?”</p><p>Sofie does not want to talk about work. At all. “It was... it was fine.”</p><p>His knuckle brushes her skin, sliding from her chest across the neckline, just slightly hooked, following the fabric along her skin until it slips out over her shoulder and he’s leaning down, bracing his hands on the counter on either side of her body. Caging her in.</p><p> It brings his face a little closer to hers. She watches his eyes shift to her mouth, back up to her eyes, he licks his lips and his chest expands with a slow, low inhale.</p><p>“Is it okay I’m here, Sofie?”</p><p>Sofie almost wants to laugh. “That’s a stupid question.”</p><p>He ducks his head a little more, but she catches his smile, the little puff of laughter that ghosts her skin; his lips pressing to her cheek, just like before, but it’s slower this time, his breath soft and warm on her skin. His lips slide a little, pressing another kiss a little closer to her mouth.</p><p>“Is it?”</p><p>Sofie nods, reaching out and curling her fingers into the fabric of his shirt along his sides, feeling the heat and hardness of his body as she tilts her head a little higher; his stubble scratches her skin, her lips tingle, her breath shallow, his mouth so close, <em>so close.</em></p><p>“The stupidest.”</p><p>Another kiss, right above her jaw. A little brush of air and his lips, his mouth touches her jaw bone. He has to lean a little lower, his shoulders hunching; it makes her insides roll like she’s on a rollercoaster, climbing to the top, getting closer and closer to that peak—</p><p>Henry presses his lips to her neck as Sofie tilts her head, unconsciously tilting up on her tiptoes, eager to give him more room, to feel more of him, to let him mark her up, just like last time.</p><p>More, maybe. The words sit behind her teeth, to bite her, bruise her, be that heavy-handed, not-quite gentleman she knows he is beneath the suits and mega-watt, Clark-Kent smile.</p><p>He huffs a little breath that almost sounds like a laugh when Sofie tries to tilt up higher on her tip-toes, her hands pressed against his ribs, bracing herself for nothing, she can’t get any higher— but he moves then, and his hands grip on her hips for one brief moment of a heavy grip that makes her heart trip and pulse rocket, because she knows that grip, the press of his thumbs in her hipbones, his weight between her legs, his cock inside of her, deep and heavy and—</p><p>Henry hauls her up and sits her on the kitchen island. She barely gets in a breath before he’s there in front of her, his hands warm on her sides as he steps between the spread of her legs.</p><p>“I think I forgot how short you are, even though we joke about it,” he says with a crooked smile.</p><p>Sofie trips a laugh, her stomach fluttering, bringing her hands up to his shoulders, looking at the size of him compared to her and feeling her stomach tense, that tingle in her limbs and belly growing warmer and she touches him, sliding her palms over his shoulders.</p><p>“I think you got bigger.”</p><p>She feels his hands through the material of her jeans, the brush of his thumb along the edge, right where a sliver of her bare skin is on her side, before the start of her shirt. It makes her shiver, and her eyes shift back to his.</p><p>He shrugs, “Not yet.”</p><p>His hands tighten, his thumb slips along her skin just before he tugs her a little closer to the edge of the counter. He hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, and Sofie grips his shoulders, half afraid he’s about to pull away.</p><p>His chest shifts, his eyes sink to her mouth. “Do we have to worry about your mother coming home?”</p><p>Embarrassment crawls up her spine right alongside a flush of want, because it’s obvious what he’s asking, what this moment is. What he’s <em>doing</em> here. (And they’ve been here before, the slick of his cock in the morning light, a knock at the door, catching them right in the in-between of a moment.)</p><p>But—</p><p><em>My turn, </em>he’d said.</p><p>She shakes her head, curling her fingers into his shirt. An urging, maybe. An impatience.</p><p>
  <em>My turn.</em>
</p><p><em>Do it, </em>she thinks, <em>come on come on come on.</em></p><p>She doesn’t think she’s ever wanted something as much as she does him. It sits inside of her, makes her want to squirm against the counter, makes her want to curl her hands tighter and climb him, wrap herself around him until he has no choice but to touch her.</p><p><em>Make like a koala,</em> she thinks, and fucking <em>cling</em>.</p><p>But she doesn’t have to, Henry steps a half-step closer, tugging her forward an inch until she’s perched right on the edge of the counter and he’s right there, his waist thick between her legs.</p><p>She forgot how…how staggering the feel of that was; her thighs pressed against his sides, the heat of him, the width and muscle and just— just <em>him</em>.</p><p>Henry leans down, his mouth hovering just there, in front of hers as his hand slides up her side, his fingers pushing under the hem of her shirt, spreading out along her side until it’s just the flat of his palm, the heat of his hand on her skin, spread wide and heavy and large.</p><p>His thumb slides slowly over her stomach.</p><p>Her pulse races; she’s breathing too hard, she knows, but she can’t catch it.</p><p>She sucks in a breath just before his lips touch hers; his hands tighten, a flicker of something in his face just before he’s tilting his head and all there is, all there is his mouth and hers.</p><p>For a second, it’s nothing more than lips on lips, skin on skin, shared breath and— and Sofie thinks, this is it.</p><p>
  <em>Finally, finally—</em>
</p><p>Just as he opens his mouth opens more and Sofie grips onto him, pressing herself forward, knowing he’ll catch her, hold her, keep her in the thick of his arms as she presses her chest against his.</p><p>The kiss gets hot and heavy fast, his tongue stroking along hers, deep, open-mouthed kisses that leave her body electric-tipped, leave her pressing herself into him as much as she can, her hands sliding along his shoulders, digging her short nails into the back of his neck, feeling him leaning into her, tilting her back a little over the counter. His hand spreads wider, higher on her side, pressing against her ribs, his fingertips just brushing along the bottom edge of her bra.</p><p>For all that Sofie has thought about seeing him again, fantasised about him fucking her again … she isn’t sure she thought it would be like this. Hot, wet, tinged with this hungry desperation on the edge of his teeth scraping her bottom lip, a little slick apology on the path his tongue takes after, like he knows it’s heavy and hard and right on the edge of too much.</p><p>And it is, maybe. It’s not <em>nice.</em></p><p>It’s not a <em>nice</em> kiss.</p><p>But she scrapes her teeth over his bottom lip, wants to give it back as good as he deals it out; his hand bruises onto her hip before he lifts it off of her, his arm rising, his hand cupping her jaw, his fingers curling around the back of her neck, his thumb pressing along the sharp of her jaw bone, holding her still as he tilts his head.</p><p>It’s not <em>nice. </em>It’s not sweet or tender or urging and slow like he’s trying to ease her into things. It’s hard and hungry, his mouth on hers like he can open her up, swallow her whole.</p><p>Sofie makes a noise into his mouth, her nails scraping the short hairs at the nape of his neck, and he breaks the kiss, scraping a kiss over her jaw, leaving her panting and gripping at shoulders, pressing her body into his.</p><p>His hand slides around the back of her neck, tilting it to give himself more access as he kisses and nips at her neck before sealing his mouth over her pulse point and sucking a mark into her skin.</p><p>It makes her breath catch, a little trip of a noise she can’t stop, makes her hips shift against the counter, trying to press against his waist, to find relief for the thing burning to life inside that has everything to do with the man in front of her.</p><p>Sofie sinks a hand beneath the back of his shirt, feeling the hard weight of his muscles, the heat of his skin; her nails sink in when his teeth scrape her shoulder, when he sucks at her skin again, leaving another mark that sends sparks through her body, makes her cunt throb, her body twitch; her nails scratching deeper into his skin.</p><p>He makes a noise in his throat, a rumble in his chest she feels everywhere, beneath her hand, against her body, against her neck where his mouth is pressed.</p><p>Henry tugs at the shoulder of her shirt, stretching it a little so he can get his mouth against more of her.</p><p>She’s absently glad the shirt is stretchy, feeling his fingers hook into the neckline when he realises it, too, stretching it further, sliding it over her shoulder and down until it’s halfway down her arm and Sofie shivers as his mouth follows the neckline. His lips and teeth brushing her skin, sinking closer towards her breast, the little slope that’s moving with her quick, uneven breaths as he kisses her there.</p><p>His hand slides over her arm, along her back, spread wide likes he’s feeling her skin, Sofie lets her head fall against his shoulder as his mouth scrapes, hotter and wetter, just on the top of her breast.</p><p>She grips onto his back, trying not to squirm into him, already feeling the heat between her legs, that familiar ache that spills out of her all slick and warm and needy.</p><p>He hasn’t even touched her yet, not really.</p><p>“Sofie,” he starts, his breath hot on her skin, his lips damp as he says her name into her collarbone, his lips hot, sinking lower as his hand spreads against the curve of her spine, holding her as he leans forward, his mouth sinking lower.</p><p>She waits for more, for him to say something, but it’s just her name in his mouth and his hands on her body.</p><p>She tilts back as he eases her against the counter, his mouth skimming over her chest, his palm wide on her back, bracing her until she’s flat against it; her hands slipping over the back of his head, through the thick, dark of his hair, her fingers sinking into it.</p><p>His other hand spreads wide on her side, pushing her shirt up more, over her ribs, his mouth skimming down, pressing these hot, open-mouthed kisses and bites on her stomach that make her hips twitch.</p><p>When she feels his fingers on the button of her jeans, her chest hitches, her fingers curling in his hair as his lips slide over her belly button, press a kiss, slicks his tongue over that slope just beneath it; his chin scraping her skin with his stubble in a way that makes her shiver.</p><p>His thumb pops the button on her jeans just as he tilts his head and sinks his teeth into her hip.</p><p>Sofie’s whole body sparks, her hips twitching up, fingers twisting tighter into his hair, as she lets out this high, reedy noise that makes her flush-up from head to toe. Her knee jerks and she braces her foot against his side as he shifts, hooking the thick of his arm under her leg, tugging her closer as her knee falls wide—</p><p>There’s a crack of a noise and she startles at the same time Henry jerks back, his arm shooting out as he reaches for the glass beside them as it tilts, rolling to the edge of the counter—</p><p>And falls, shattering over the floor.</p><p>“<em>Shite</em>,” he curses, leaning back and away from her and Sofie thinks, <em>who cares about a glass—</em></p><p>
  <em>Fuck the glass.</em>
</p><p>But she slides like wobbly Jell-O off the counter after him, watching him grab for the hand-towel on the stove handle, as Sofie crouches down to grab the largest piece. “Don’t’ worry about it. It’s just a glass.”</p><p>“Hey,” he says roughly, his hand on her arm and tugging her away from it as he crouches in front of her. “Careful— I’ll do it.”</p><p>“I work at a coffee shop,” she says, but her hands are unsteady, she feels like she chugged a Red Bull, unsteady, hot all over and shaky with something like adrenaline. “We break stuff all the time.”</p><p>“Still, it was my fault,” he argues, and his eyes are so blue and his hair a little mussed; his shoulders broad and his thighs thick in the dark denim… and Sofie— Sofie swallows, watching him pick up the shards of the glass, dropping them onto the towel, watching him push back up and turn to the sink and set the whole bundle in it with a muffled clink of broken glass.</p><p>He looks ruffled. Irritated.</p><p>There’s a <em>very</em> obvious bulge in the front of his jeans.</p><p>It spills out of her, she can’t stop it, feeling almost drunk in the moment, too hot and like, <em>sticky</em> from his kisses, kiss-drunk. Henry-drunk. <em>Who cares about a glass?</em></p><p>She unbalances and plops backwards, landing on her ass as she laughs; he looks down at her, lifting an eyebrow.</p><p>“You alright there, Sofie?”</p><p>“I—” she starts but it gets caught in laughter, flapping her hand in the direction of that bulge that is impossible to miss. “I’m sorry—but— you look so <em>grumpy—</em>”</p><p>Henry crouches down in front of her, his lips pulling into a crooked smile while he watches her. “Give a guy a complex, laughing at his dick like that.”</p><p>Sofie laughs harder, dropping her face into her hands and shaking her head, that bubbly-champagne feeling that fizzes inside of her because of him spills out and she can’t get away from it. “Okay, Mister Man of Steel,” she chokes into her hands, trying to bite back her laughter. “<em>Sure</em>.”</p><p>She feels his hand close around her wrist, feels the tug, the pull of his arm; she lets him pull her towards him, sliding across the floor on her bottom and socked-feet, her laughter slowing, getting caught in some stomach-twisting <em>ohmygod</em> as she looks at his face…</p><p>At the way he’s looking at her.</p><p>Sofie presses her lips together, but she laughs again, looking up at him, her heart pounding. “I’ve seen your dick, I bet you wear like, triple X-L Magnums.”</p><p>He grins, tilting an eyebrow. “I order them, actually. Online.”</p><p>She laughs again, her face scrunching with it. “Of <em>course</em> you do. Oh my <em>God.”</em></p><p>He huffs a laugh, tugging her a little closer, she slides forward another inch. “Are we seriously talking about my dick right now?”</p><p>“Sorry, sorry,” she laughs, and she gives into another little bubble of that feeling, knowing he’s watching her, waiting as her laughter fades into a few tripping little giggles.</p><p>Henry pulls her arm over his shoulder as he turns his mouth into the bend of her wrist, her elbow.</p><p>He braces a hand on the kitchen tiles, shifting forward on one knee, his lips ghosting and warm through her long-sleeved shirt.</p><p>“I mean, it’s a very nice dick,” she says and she means it to be lighter than it comes out sounding, but her heart does this stutter in her chest as her belly does this flop; watching his eyes move over her. The rucked-up mess of her shirt, still tugged over her ribs and the neckline halfway down her arm. The button of her jeans popped open, the waist sitting loose around her hips.</p><p>His lips twitch up, his eyes flicking back up to hers, a little crinkle in the corner that’s stupidly attractive. “Is that right?”</p><p>She nods, her heartbeat ticking harder in her chest as he looks at her; she bites her lip. “Like you don’t know.”</p><p>He smirks, it’s stupidly attractive. “Different strokes, and all that.”</p><p>She laughs. “<em>Yeah</em>, like two-handed.”</p><p>“<em>Jesus</em>,” he chokes out on a low laugh, his eyes closing briefly, tugging her a little closer; leaning forward more, his hand sliding up the outside of her thigh.</p><p> “Want a tour of the rest of the house?”</p><p>There’s a flicker of confusion on his face at Sofie’s sudden switch in topic; she swallows her nerves and tries to steady herself. She doesn’t want to make out with him on the kitchen floor.</p><p>That’s a lie.</p><p>She’d make out with him anywhere.</p><p>“We can start in my room?”</p><p>His grin is quick and bright and not at all gentlemanly. She thinks she kinda really likes it.</p><p>“I think that’s a great place to start.”</p><p>He pushes to his feet, offering his hand to pull her up, holding her steady until she gets her legs to cooperate; tilting her head to look up at him as he tugs on one of her braids before pushing her away from him a little and shaking his head.</p><p>“Move, or you’re going back on that counter.”</p><p>She might, like, get a little wet from that. Or, truthfully, a little <em>more</em> wet from that.</p><p>She laughs but it’s all breathy and just barely able to cover that her insides are gooey and sticky with want, that her underwear might be gooey and sticky with want.</p><p>Like, a little bit.</p><p>Or a lot.</p><p>Who’s measuring.</p><p>Stepping around him, Sofie leads him out of the kitchen, fixing the button on her jeans as they slip on her hips a little. Heading back down the hallway, feeling him behind her like this… this weird, hot, weight filled with anticipation and eagerness that’s all caught up in a need for him to touch her again.</p><p>Up the stairs, his hand just behind hers on the railing, his footsteps echoing hers… that feeling building and spinning inside of her; she tries to push it down a little, to stamp it down into something more manageable.</p><p>She’s not at all sure it’s possible.</p><p>Her bedroom is the first door at the top of the stairs, and she twists the handle, trying to put herself together, to grasp all the bits of her mind that feel too caught up in the man behind her, and focus.</p><p><em>Be cool, </em>she tells herself, <em>normal. Don’t be desperate.</em></p><p>Even though desperate is probably the best definition for what the feeling inside of her is; sticky with want, achy with need, a pulse-beat throb that settles right <em>there </em>inside of her, with the memory of what it was like to be filled up by him.</p><p>
  <em>Be cool. Be normal. Don’t be desperate.</em>
</p><p>Pulling in a steadying breath and pushing into her room, Sofie leads him in, trying to remember if she left it clean when she ran home on her break on her panicked rush of <em>ohmygodwe’re goingtogetnaked.</em></p><p>Her pyjamas are on the end of her bed and there’s a pair of socks on the floor, a hoodie on her desk chair, but it’s not bad, she thinks and hopes her bathroom looks the same.</p><p>“I feel like I’ve already been in here,” he says behind her, and Sofie turns her head to look back at him, his eyes moving over her room and then back down to her. “From Skype an’ all.”</p><p><em>Right,</em> she thinks, and then smiles, turning to face him, nudging him back with her hand on his stomach. (Trying very hard to not think about how big and good he looks in her room because she’s like pretty sure it’s killing her like, a little bit.) “Well, that’s it for this room then, how about we head—”</p><p>“Yeah, don’t think so,” Henry huffs, and ducks down.</p><p>Sofie barely realises what’s happening before he’s got her over his shoulder; the world tilts and she laughs, feeling his hand on the back of her thighs, hearing her door shut with a thud behind them, feeling him move further into her room before tossing her back and onto her bed.</p><p>The duvet puffs beneath her, and she grins up at him as he kneels over her, his hands planting on either side of her head.</p><p>“You’re going to drive me mental.”</p><p>She can’t bite back her smile, her insides trilling, looking down between them, at the way he’s kneeling between her legs, the thick of his body over hers. “I’m not doing anything.”</p><p>He puffs a breath out of his nose, his eyes sinking down over her body. “Uh-huh.”</p><p>Sofie braces her feet on the bed, pressing her sock-covered toes into the sides of his calves, knocking the inside of her thighs against the outside of his. She can’t stop smiling, feeling dopey with it as she reaches up, curling her hands over his forearms and over his biceps just to feel his skin and the muscles beneath his shirt. “I’m not.”</p><p>He leans down, Sofie watches the shift of his shoulders, the dark of top of his head, the way his hair falls out of place as he ducks his head and presses his lips to that soft dip of skin between her ribs, just below where her shirt is bunched up.</p><p>“Sure,” he mutters hotly and opens his mouth to kiss her there, his lips hot on her skin as he trails it just lower.</p><p>It would almost ticklish, if it didn’t send a spike of arousal right through her body.</p><p>“I mean, I just thought you wanted a tour of the house,” she says, trying to slow her breathing, to steady herself.</p><p>Her belly trembles beneath his mouth, his breath puffing hotly once more before he pushes back, kneeling on the bed and between her legs as his eyes meet hers.</p><p>Sofie has no idea what to do with her hands, knotting one into the bedspread and lifting the other to her mouth, biting at her thumbnail as she watches him, trying to bite back the desperate thing that wants to break out of her chest, that thing that wants to urge him to touch her more.</p><p>“I’m not here to see your house, Sofie,” he says, with this low, steady voice that makes her insides sprout up like a little flower seeking sunlight.</p><p>She looks at him, watching as he reaches out, gripping onto her hips, his eyes sinking over her as he slides one hand over her stomach, fingers spread wide, stroking over it as it trembles with her breathing, unsteady beneath his touch.</p><p>Her heart pounds and her brain stutters, watching the spread of his hand on her stomach, the easy way he covers her, could and can and <em>will</em> handle her.</p><p>“No?” she says lightly, watching as his thumb brushes over her bellybutton. “You here to bang me, then?”</p><p>He snorts, tugging her hips up roughly onto his folded knees, shocking a breath out of her.</p><p>“<em>Like a screen door in a hurricane</em>,” he drawls in that low, rough-edged American accent that makes her laugh as much as it makes her insides turn to some sort of sticky jelly.</p><p>She hears his laughter just behind hers, feels his hands on her hips, his breath on her stomach when he ducks down to press another biting-kiss to her skin, half-filled with laughter.</p><p>His fingers tuck into the waist of her jeans, tugging her hips a little closer, a little higher on his knees; it’s sort of a strange angle, her shirt rucking a little higher, her lower half tilted up… but Sofie knocks her knee into his side, biting her thumbnail, that Henry-drunk feeling inside of her as she looks at him, their laughter fading, but her smile <em>stuck</em>.</p><p>He licks his lips, pulling in a breath. “I actually thought I’d take you out, dinner, maybe, or even just a drink.”</p><p>Sofie tries to bite back her smile, but she’s sure it’s impossible. “Did you?”</p><p>He nods. “Right after I got your birthday message, I thought, <em>there’s</em> my birthday gift—"</p><p>“Oh, that <em>sucks,</em>” she says, pushing out her lip. “I already ate the cinnamon bun. You came all this way for nothing.”</p><p>He pinches her side, huffing out: “Not the cinnamon bun, smartass.”</p><p>She laughs, jerking a little from the pinch, but his grip on the front of her jeans keeps her steady.</p><p>Henry’s thumb pushes against the button of her jeans; it draws all her attention. (His knuckles pressed into her skin, the edge of the back of his nails, scraping just beneath the waistband of her underwear.)</p><p>She looks down at his hand, the grip he has on her, the way it feels to almost be in his lap. In a way. Her ass is there, at least, and she can feel him beneath her, even through the layers of denim.</p><p>“The point,” he says, his voice lower, his eyes flicking down to his hand just as he pops the button on her jeans. “Is that I had a plan.”</p><p>“Uh-huh,” Sofie breathes out, biting her thumbnail.</p><p>“To woo you.”</p><p>She chokes a laugh as he hunches down, pressing a kiss to the skin just beneath the popped button her jeans.</p><p>“Did you?”</p><p>He nods. “The wooing is important.”</p><p>“Is it?”</p><p>“Very. I had every honourable intention,” he says seriously, but smiles at Sofie’s laugh. “The plan should count for something, shouldn’t it?”</p><p>Sofie nods. “Do you want a gold star?”</p><p>His lips quirk, laugh puffing against her skin as he tugs at the waist of her jeans, another inch of skin, the beginnings of that slope just at the start of her mound; he presses his mouth there, too.</p><p>Her pulse trips. She’s pretty sure her whole body is lit-up with anticipation.</p><p>Sitting right at the top of that roller coaster and waiting for that—</p><p>Freefall.</p><p>“You know what I want, Sofie?” he asks, as Sofie’s breath comes shallow, in little rushes, watching his hair fall out of place, the thick of his shoulders, his nose brushing her skin as his lips do, his stubble on his chin scraping as he presses a kiss to her mound.</p><p>Sofie shakes her head.</p><p>“I want,” he says, all low and warm and just edged in that roughness she’s dreamt about. “To eat you out.”</p><p>Sofie’s heart skips.</p><p>“A lot.” His eyes flick up to hers like he’s waiting for permission. For a yes.</p><p><em>Jesus,</em> she thinks and nods her head down once in an unsteady jerk.</p><p>His eyes rake over her as Sofie lifts her hips, his gaze sinking to where his fingers curl, his knuckles hot against her hip bones as he tugs both her jeans and her underwear down in one go.</p><p>It’s a bit awkward, the tug of his hands, working her jeans down her legs, one leg and then the next… To say she isn’t a little embarrassed by the sticky mess between her thighs, would be a lie, it’s impossible to miss the shine on her skin, the slickness on her cunt; but Henry makes a noise in his throat, knocking her thighs wider, pulling her hips up back up onto his knees.</p><p>Sofie flushes, whimpering as her legs fall open, spread around the width of his body, toes curling into the ruffles on her duvet; held open by his hand sliding up the inside of her thigh, his thumb rubbing along that tendon of her inner thigh, feeling the slip, the slickness that’s all her own as his thumb <em>just</em> brushes along the side of her cunt.</p><p>She’s torn between telling him she doesn’t need him to eat her out, that she’s already wet and ready to go, part of her still convinced that he can’t possibly like it as much as he made it seem in New York, and wanting to feel all those things he made her feel just with his fucking <em>tongue.</em></p><p>Before she can decide, Henry’s leaning back, pulling her hips higher on his bent knees, spreading her legs wider as he hunches down to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss right over her clit.</p><p>“<em>Ohf</em>-<em>fuck</em>,” she chokes out, her hips twitching up, her head tilting back, her hand flying up to brace against her headboard even as she feels her own hips roll, twitching up towards his mouth.</p><p>She’s almost embarrassed by how much she wants him to keep going, to feel that same building pressure, that slick heat of him eating her out the way she knows he can.</p><p>(There’s this little itch of self-consciousness, this hesitation, that he doesn’t really enjoy it, that it takes too long, that men would rather just fuck—)</p><p>But she can’t stop her hips, that needy thing throbbing in her cunt as his mouth opens again, as he <em>groans</em> into her, a rough, rolling vibration that sparks inside of her so hotly she’s pretty sure she gets <em>wetter </em>just from the sound and feeling of it<em>.</em></p><p>Henry curls an arm beneath her hips, tugging her higher as he opens his mouth wider, his tongue hot and heavy, licking over her; stroking over the spread of her, circling her clit before sucking at it.</p><p>The pressure in his mouth, the pressure of his face pushing into her, urging her to grind harder, to roll her hips against his face makes her breath hitch out of her in something desperate as her spine rolls and arcs and her braids fray and rub beneath her head.</p><p>Henry pushes her leg up, letting her brace her foot on the thick, tense muscles in the meat of his shoulder, her socked-toes curling, pressing into him whenever he nips her clit before soothing that electric little spark that comes with it, with a slower, heavier stroke of his tongue</p><p>She grips at her pillow, wrinkled and squished behind her head, turning her face into it to bury the pitch of her voice, the hitching noises she can’t hold in; the broken, desperate little hitches and moans and squirming whimpers.</p><p>She feels his hand grip onto her ass cheek to hold her lower body up, to keep her tilted, a little feast beneath his mouth that he devours eagerly, avidly, until his cheeks are a little shiny, his stubble slick on her skin with her juices.</p><p>It’s almost perverse to watch, but Sofie loses herself to her body and his; there’s nothing but her heartbeat, his mouth, the muscles in his shoulder and arms, her hips, his tongue, his hands gripping and groping as her body lights up, burns brighter and brighter— and she’s grinding against his mouth, his hand on her ass urging the roll of her hips as she breaks open, her stomach tensing—</p><p>And it’s seconds, hours, moments more of his mouth on her, his tongue unrelenting, his hand bruising on her inner thigh, holding her open to keep his mouth on her as she squirms and unravels and falls apart beneath him.</p><p>She comes with a sobbing sort of hitching cry, her body sparking, electric-tipped and boneless all at once<em>—</em></p><p>He licks her up with a rough groan, chases the spasms, the twitches, the sobbing hitch of her voice she can’t stop as he keeps going, ignoring the unsteady little push, tug, tremble of her fingers against his scalp, feeling unwound but burning up all at once.</p><p>She whines, her nails scratching at his scalp. She can’t stay still but he holds her tighter, his face still buried.</p><p>He kisses her thigh, her clit, licks her up, presses her tongue over her clit until she’s moaning and squirming, her body still caught up and too bright. Like static, building up for another burst of lightning.</p><p>His tongue melts her, licks her up, gathers her in his mouth and Sofie, pants, quivers, whimpers at every flat-tongued stroke he laves over her, slower and slower, like he’s savouring it…</p><p>Which is… <em>crazy</em>, she thinks, <em>crazy</em>.</p><p> His teeth sink into her thigh, but his eyes are on a dripping line, a slow slinking leak that trails from her cunt over her mound and towards her stomach; trailing all slow and slick as it slips towards her belly button. He groans, watching it, focused on it, still holding her open, spread wide right beneath his mouth.</p><p>Her face burns for the sight of it, of <em>him—</em>how he holds her, the tremble in her limbs, the still-sparking quiver inside of her, the shine on her cunt, his mouth <em>right there—</em> his eyes—</p><p>Henry pushes two fingers over that dripping line, catching the drip, dragging it along the slick and back onto the swollen heat of her clit; his eyes watching it, his voice rough and wanting, his fingers heavy and focused as she trembles and her thighs shake around him.</p><p>“Fuckin’ hell, Sof,” he growls, his voice thick with his accent. He twists his hand and those two fingers sink inside of her, burying deep and long and thick, just <em>brushing</em> that bundle of nerves before he’s slipping his fingers back out with a little twist so she can feel the width of them, his knuckles, the tips of his fingers, every inch of them before he pushes them back in again.</p><p>Sofie’s spine arcs, her voice twisting out some sort of fractured <em>oh, f-fuck</em>— the muscles in her thighs tensing, twitching to close before falling wider, held apart by his body as he sucks at her clit, sinking his fingers deeper inside of her every time, a little stretch that makes her mind spark and cunt clench for the awareness of <em>why</em> he does it.</p><p>It’s too much and so good and— not enough— but—</p><p>He sinks a third finger inside of her, flicking his tongue over her clit to ease that sudden ache of taking more. His breath puffs on her skin, his stubble scrapes at it…</p><p>“Come on, Sofie,” Henry growls, hooking his fingers and rubbing his thumb over her clit. “That’s it.”</p><p>Her chest trembles, his fingers hot and wide and wet, all slick-sounding inside of her every time he straightens them, pulls them back only to push them deeper, curving, rubbing… an endless, relentless rhythm she can’t do anything but sink inside of and get swallowed up by.</p><p>Nearly wants to tell him to stop— it’s too much— <em>too much— </em>but every stretch of his fingers, every shift, every hot breath from his mouth, or heavy stroke of his tongue makes her body spark, her face burn, mouth open, hair knotting beneath her head as she arches, tenses, feels his fingers rubbing steadier, heavier— like he knows she’s right <em>there—</em></p><p>
  <em>That’s it, baby, come on—</em>
</p><p><em>Sofie sobs, </em>clenching around his fingers, cunt spasming as he rubs her, stretching his fingers inside of her like he wants to feel every clench and tremor as she comes.</p><p>It takes her slow-blinking, spine-stretched moments before her mind gathers back from the frayed, burst apart edges of her orgasm; moments where everything feels distant except for him. Everything is hazy and hot, sparking and bright— but he’s—</p><p>A slow, sloppy kiss against her cunt, a wet kiss against her mound, a hot exhalation of words she can’t catch. Kissing up her stomach, his stubble scratching, one of his hand stroking out over her ass, up her spine, back down, fingers spread wide to feel each tremor still lingering in her aftershocks.</p><p>He’s saying something, but Sofie only catches the edges of it beneath the pump of her heartbeat in her ears.</p><p><em>Wanting to. Months. Sofie— a</em>ll with his fingers still buried inside of her like he wants to feel every last clench of her muscles, every last quiver of her cunt.</p><p>She blinks down at him, watching his mouth on her skin, the dark of his hair and stubble and breath on her skin full of too-heavy things she doesn’t know what to do with.</p><p>Pushing weakly at his shoulders, Henry tucks his arm beneath her lower back, his fingers slipping out of her, sliding wetly over her hip, pulling her up with him until she’s sitting on his folded knees, sucking in a little breath as she feels the weight of his cock, thick and hard, still trapped in his jeans.</p><p>She almost wants to laugh, because he’s still dressed and she’s still got her socks and shirt on, but he just…</p><p>Sofie licks her lips; their eyes meet as she reaches for him, feeling the prick of his stubble on her palms, the puff of his breath on her lips— and kisses him, licking herself out of his mouth, tasting the bitter, sweet tang of herself caught on his tongue; the heat of his lips, the sharpness of his teeth.</p><p>She feels his hands on her, the grip on her ass, tugging her into his lap more; the roughness of his denim-covered cock, digging into her as he groans into her mouth.</p><p>She can’t even be embarrassed by how wet she feels as she rolls her hips against him, her breath tripping out, over-sensitive but still wanting. Still desperate.</p><p>Henry’s hands slide up her back, feeling the roll of her body, the slow grind of her hips; his fingers slip under the edges of her shirt and he tugs it up and off, their mouths breaking apart only long enough for him to glance down, to reach for her bra, catching her mouth again, his kiss hard and hungry and wanting.</p><p>His fingers snap the clasp on her bra as Sofie tugs at his shirt, bunching it up in her grip against his back, tugging until he gets the idea and he pulls it up and off, getting his hands back on her in less than a second.</p><p>She bites her cheek at the feeling of his skin on hers, the way the thick of his arm feels, wrapping around her waist, his palms sliding up her spine, over her shoulder as he breaks the kiss, biting over her jaw and down her neck.</p><p>Sofie breathes out, pressing her chest into his, not even embarrassed when she squirms into him, enjoying the hardness of his muscles, the scratch of his chest hair against her breasts, the heat and hardness of him around her.</p><p>It trips inside of her suddenly, the heaviness of the moment that’s all caught up in his mouth on her skin, the heat of his tongue and the weight of his hands, spread wide on her sides, caressing up her back, the way he lingers near her hips, feeling the way she grinds against him.</p><p>It’s slow and heavy and his lips and breath are so <em>hot</em> on her skin, his stubble scraping over her—</p><p>It’s nothing like New York.</p><p>(or it is, maybe, but like that last shower, too hot and too heavy.)</p><p>Sofie tugs him up for a kiss. Biting at his bottom lip; she thinks she needs this harder, needs this rougher, needs this to go back to what it was in the kitchen— that easiness between them, laughter and just…just—</p><p>She wraps her arms around his neck, clinging onto him; feeling more than hearing that noise in his chest, his hand spreading on her hip, gripping as it slides to her ass. He breaks the kiss, nipping at her jaw, his breath hot, his voice rough—</p><p>“Fuck, Sofie—”</p><p>He grips her ass, tugging her into him as she rolls her hips over him as he kisses and sucks at her neck.</p><p>Sofie sinks her fingers between them, curls them around his belt; thinks she enjoys that noise, that clink of metal, that hiss of leather… like a lead up to more, a promise of the things she knows that come after.</p><p>Working his pants open, squirming back just enough to get her hand on his cock between them, hearing him grunt into her neck as her hand curves around the thick, heavy weight of it. It makes her insides clench, her stomach twist, even just from the throb of it in her palm.</p><p>Henry tenses, his hands gripping onto her ass, groping and pulling her into him as she curves her hand around his cock, breaking her mouth away to look down and look at his cock in her hands, his breath hot on her temple.</p><p>It’s thick and heavy and a little terrifying, she can’t lie. But her insides heat and melt with the memory of him inside of her. The stretch, the ache, the throbbing pulse of him coming inside of her.</p><p>She wants that again, she thinks, but— but she thinks about that first night, about how careful he’d been with condoms. The second night, when he didn’t fuck her... how—</p><p>There’s a drop of liquid at the tip, Sofie strokes her thumb over it, spreading the slickness over the head of his cock, feeling more than hearing the roll of a groan from his chest.</p><p>How they <em>should</em> use them, shouldn’t they. She should want to, he might’ve— he could’ve slept with someone since— he could have anyone. Anyone.</p><p>Her stomach does this weird roll and she pushes the thoughts away, distracted by Henry’s hands on her, a noise in his throat like a caught breath, pressing his lips to her cheekbone, her cheek, back up towards her temple as she grips his cock.</p><p>(It’s all there in her head, the push in, the spread of her cunt around his cock, the slow filling that was as hot and heavy as the steam in the shower.)</p><p>She squirms, desperate to feel him again.</p><p>With her teeth in her lip, Sofie squirms in his lap, wrapping one of her arms around his shoulders to press closer, shifting higher— cupping his cock in her hand but letting it rub against her stomach, feeling it slide through the wetness that’s sticky on her lower stomach and mound. He feels thick, throbbing, impossible big.</p><p>Their eyes meet, her heart fucking <em>pounds.</em></p><p>It’s a long moment, like that one in the shower, his hands on her skin, his skin beneath hers…</p><p>Their lips hover, sharing breath; the question is there, isn’t it? The memory of the shower, his cock rubbing over her, the slow, slick press in—</p><p>Sofie can’t take it, feels empty and wanting and impatient— wants to watch his cock shine as he fucks her, pulls out all that needy, wet ache from inside of her and fuck her into satisfaction. Wants him to weigh her down and break her open, wants—</p><p>Him.</p><p>She curves her feet over the thick of his thighs, trying to balance herself higher. Henry’s hand grips onto her hip, her side, back down to her ass; his eyes still on hers, his breath hot on her lips.</p><p>Somehow, she thinks he’s thinking the same thing. (The shower, the heat, his cock burning inside of her.)</p><p>They shouldn’t, she knows, but neither one says anything and when she lifts up a little higher, he doesn’t stop her, his hand grips onto her hip as her fingers press his cock against her stomach, feeling it slip lower as she lifts up on her knees… feels the thick of him sliding over her mound, the bump of his head against her fingers as she presses harder, presses a little closer—</p><p>Her back hits the mattress. Henry’s mouth hits hers, his voice rough and so low it makes her cunt clench.</p><p><em>“Godamnit, Sofie,”</em> he growls, right into her mouth and then kisses her, hot and hard and almost too rough, the thick of his arm curving under her knee, folding her in half as he braces his hand on the bed and shifts forward.</p><p>He’s heavy and too hot and his jeans rub weirdly at her skin, the zipper scratching over the inside of her thighs, but he’s pushing inside of her and there’s nothing, nothing else in the moment but that feeling. That heat, fullness, aching-stretch of his cock sinking inside of her.</p><p>It’s almost too much.</p><p>Her breath catches, trips on a cry, breaking their kiss; feeling his mouth slide over her cheek, a groan in his throat that rolls right into her like it’s another part of him, trying to find space in her body.</p><p>She whimpers, her face scrunching, cheeks burning as he pushes deeper, feeling herself stretching to fit him. It hurts a little more than she remembers, even after having his fingers inside of her, even as wet as she is… but he’s heavy and surrounding and there’s <em>nothing</em> like it, she thinks, being… being stuck beneath him, caged in by his arms and the hardness of his chest against hers and the thick of his waist that spreads her thighs, leaves her trembling, held open, desperate for more.</p><p>Henry curves his arm beneath her waist, and it angles her body differently, shifts his cock to rub right against those nerves inside of her— and Sofie’s pretty fucking sure nothing as felt so fucking <em>good</em> in her entire life as he tilts his hips back even though she’s sure he hasn’t sunk in all the way.</p><p>Her back arches more, she feels herself clamping down on his cock as it eases out of her before sinking right back in, and Henry curses, his mouth turning into her knee as he drags her leg a little bit between them, putting this distance between their bodies she kind of really hates and whines for the loss of some of his weight.</p><p>Sofie grips at his arm, her nails sunk deep, scratching at his skin before sliding over his shoulder, his chest, the thud of his heart like a drum, as heavy and surrounding as his body is, trying to tug him back down.</p><p>He nips her knee, a little warning, like he knows what she wants and won’t give it to her. But she can’t find the words to complain as Henry pulls back before pushing into her again; his eyes on hers as his cock pulls out of her in this thick drag, before sinking back in, thick and long and rubbing against those nerves the whole time.</p><p>Her legs trembles around his waist and against his chest, muscles quivering as he moves steadily; it’s hot and heavy and she thinks she loses time a little, biting her cheek to keep those desperate, too loud sounds that want to break out of her, inside of her chest. It doesn’t feel like a loud moment, it’s too— too—</p><p>Too caught between fucking and something else. Even though it’s fucking, isn’t it?</p><p>She bites down, her spine rolling, breathing hard and gripping at him, her whole body <em>lit-fucking-up— </em>Everything turns into the drag of his cock inside of her, the thud of his heartbeat, the heat of his breath on her knee. The groan she can hear, as her cunt clenches, her muscles tightening, spine rolling as she gets closer and closer to that plummet, the drop, the plunge from the top of the rollercoaster.</p><p>And then it’s there, and Sofie can’t stop the whimpering, hitching sob in her throat; nothing but his cock and her muscles and that stomach-tensing, out-of-body moment stretching out as he fucks her through it. A wet sound between them, his voice a rough-rolling thing that sparks inside of her just as much as his cock does.</p><p><em>Fuck,</em> he growls, <em>fuck—</em></p><p>Tucking her bent knee between them, he fucks into her faster, his thrusts shallower but harder as his body gets heavier over hers—feels the flex of his abs along her calf, his hip beneath the curling of her toes as his thrusts keep her lit up, sparking, crying out and trembling through her orgasm.</p><p>She feels the pulse of his cock, the thick-throb of him that always makes him feel bigger, like she can feel every inch, every pulse; the thick heat of his cum spilling inside of her as he curses, his heart pounding against her leg, his breath hot and uneven on her knee as he comes.</p><p>Time slips away again. Henry lets her leg slide out from between them, his body sinking heavily over her until his chest is against hers, catching her mouth, the kiss sloppy and breathless, full of teeth before slipping over her cheek, scraping a kiss over her jaw as he grinds against her, cock still throbbing, cum slick and hot and this perverse sort of perfect.</p><p>She probably shouldn’t like it as much as she does, she thinks. But it’s there all the same, this split-body thrill for the feeling of it, him on top of her, her legs boneless and quivering, wrapped around the thick of his middle, his breath on her neck, the scratch of his chest hair and the stickiness of his sweat on her skin, his arm beneath her, holding her in place while his hips grind in those slow little pulses like he can get deeper than he already is; it hurts just a little, like the bruise-sort of ache, even though he’s softening inside of her.</p><p>It’s perfect.</p><p><em>Gross and perfect,</em> she thinks, pushing her hand over the thick of his arm and shoulder, feeling the still-tense of his muscles, the slip of his sweat beneath her palm. <em>If that’s a thing something can be.</em></p><p>Apparently, it can.</p><p>Henry scrapes his teeth over her shoulder before he shifts his weight, his arm coming out from beneath her as he braces on his forearms on either side of her head and catches her mouth with his.</p><p>It’s a slow kiss. Lazy, almost, and Sofie sucks in a breath, wrapping her arms around his shoulders before sighing into it. Feeling her body ease as his tongue strokes hers, as time slips away again, into nothing but his mouth and his weight on top of her.</p><p>She feels his hips pushing against her a little more, a rough, caught groan in the back of his throat as her cunt clenches around him; his cock twitches as his hips do and Sofie winces a little at the shift of his cock, a weird stretched and full feeling inside of her, that bruise-ache she feels whenever he moves.</p><p>Henry’s mouth slips away, kissing hotly over her cheek, his teeth sharp when he nips at her jaw. “You’re trouble, you know that.”</p><p>It’s not even a question, she thinks, it’s too low and gravelly, heavy with that sex-growl she’s like, not at all turned on by.</p><p>Really.</p><p>She doesn’t know what he means by it, isn’t sure why she’s trouble, but when he leans back, she kind of just wants him to stay on top of her; feels cold in the absence of his bodyweight, more naked, somehow, and she shivers, flushes a little as his eyes travel over her.</p><p>He blows out a breath, dragging a hand through his hair while his other hand strokes over her thigh, her hip and side, touching her slowly, almost like it’s absentminded.</p><p>She wants to ask what he means, but she can’t get her voice to work, eyes moving over him, her teeth in her lip, because he’s—</p><p>
  <em>Something.</em>
</p><p>Broad and thick, damp with sweat. Masculine, she thinks, even though it feels stupid to think because he’s very much and very obviously a man, but—</p><p>But he looks like the definition of the word. Like if anyone could carve a statue of what a man should look like… it’d be like him.</p><p>Henry’s hand strokes along the inside of her thigh, pushing her leg open, his eyes on his cock, still buried inside of her.</p><p>Sofie can’t help but look, too. Pushing herself up on her elbows as his thumb strokes along the tendon in the inner curve of her thigh, sliding through all that sticky, drying mess on her skin.</p><p>He glances at her, and then back down as he shifts back a little, his cock slipping out of her; his hand brushing over her thigh when she trembles, her cheek flushing as he strokes his hand back down it, his thumb over the soaked, flushed-pink of her cunt.</p><p>Sofie twitches, pulling in a breath, stomach clenching as he brushes his thumb along her entrance, watching the first seep of his cum, sticky-white and leaking out of her.</p><p>“Christ,” he breathes out, his thumb pressing closer, holding her open a little more, as Sofie makes a noise in her throat, dropping back to the mattress and covering her face, feeling like it’s on fire. Her cunt clenches, and she’s sure she’s leaking him just like that last day in the hotel; Henry’s thumb rubs along her opening, watching it.</p><p>“You’re <em>gross</em>,” she whines, lifting her foot to push at his shoulder, feeling his thumb rub once more before his hand falls away and she feels his hand on her ankle, turning his head to press a kiss there.</p><p>“Yeah,” he grunts, with his mouth sliding over ankle, her calf, up the inside of her knee; sinking over her, their skin sticky with sweat and come. “I know.”</p><p>It should be gross, but she’s distracted by his mouth on her stomach, between her ribs, kissing up between her breasts, his breath warm and tongue hot on her skin. “I’ve been thinking about that for months.”</p><p>Sofie twitches as he scrapes his teeth over her nipple before he presses a kiss to the peak, another on her chest, her neck, the underside of her jaw, his voice rolling in from his chest pressed against hers.</p><p>She really likes that feeling, she thinks.</p><p>“Spent way too much time jerking off to it.”</p><p>“That’s embarrassing for you,” she says, trying to lighten that sparking, heart-tripping feeling at the thought of him… thinking about her, jerking off to her, fantasizing the same way she was, has, is—</p><p>He chuckles into her cheek, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Embarrassing?” he growls, nipping at chin. “Honest, more like.”</p><p>She wonders if it is, blinking up at him when he settles over her, braced on his forearms, looking down at her and soothing a hand over the hair that frayed out of her braids, stuck to the damp heat of her face.</p><p>Is it honest?</p><p>Sofie licks her lips, trying to ignore the way his weight settles between her legs, even though she’s a little sore it makes her want to feel him again… or maybe it’s <em>because</em> she’s sore, she thinks, like the bruises he left on her skin last time, a little ache that leaves her wanting.</p><p>She wonders if he really did want her the same, over those weeks between New York and her sending that drunk video.</p><p>Is he honest?</p><p><em>I’m not that kind of guy,</em> he’d said. But they weren’t anything, aren’t anything even now— and she’d wondered it before, if she was the only hook up or just… just <em>one of. </em></p><p>She hates the idea of it. The idea of him doing this— or not even that, she thinks. She hates the idea that someone else gets to feel this, feel him this way. The weight of him, the scratch of his chest hair, the way he kisses like it’s— it’s more than just kissing. Even just those little presses of his mouth to her cheek and nose and corner of her mouth.</p><p>She pushes out a breath, biting the inside of her cheek a little, because it’s there now, inside of her head, but she doesn’t want it to be.</p><p><em>Be cool,</em> she thinks, <em>be normal. Don’t be desperate.</em></p><p>“Hey,” she says lightly, shoving the thoughts away and patting the back of his shoulder. “You like, definitely earned that gold star. Maybe even <em>two</em>.”</p><p>His laugh puffs over her cheek, turning into a thick groan that’s half-laughter as he buries his face in her neck, his voice rough and muffled, rolling out of his chest. “You’re<em> ridiculous</em>.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Phew. that was a lot.<br/>fun fact, him showing up at her work was one of the first things I had in my head for this fic, the others are still to come and span alllllll the way to the filming of the Witcher :0 </p><p>i can't believe im finally on my way</p><p>oh and the song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Bt3J9YRPPY<br/>i'm going to put a playlist together, i swear, so many songs for this fic that inspire me.</p><p> </p><p>luv you guys. &lt;3 hope you liked it and I know these last few chapters have been like, pretty fluffy and like happy romance-y stuff, but it isn't going to stay that way, things will get a bit more complicated for these two because lets be honest, it wasn't ever just a hook up haha, but you know, best laid plans and all that.</p><p>get it.</p><p>laid plans.</p><p>;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*Slides a 13k chapter under the door*<br/>Hello? Anybody still here?</p><p> </p><p>sooo... I know it's been a while, and I'm sorry about that, but my mojo is back and the story is flowing again, so I hope this long chapter will make up for some of the wait? Sincerest apologies to everyone still reading, I promise to do my utmost best to not let it happen again.</p><p> </p><p>Also a special shoutout to Pensieveforyourthoughts, and a late happy birthday! your messages helped kicked me back into gear during my writing crisis and I appreciate it! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Henry pushes his sweaty face into the pillow, his heart thudding against Sofie’s, her legs still trembling around his waist, nails sunk into his back as his hips shift in slow little pulses, cock throbbing inside of her.</p><p>It’s a little pathetic, how long he needs to gather his mind back together, breathing in cotton and <em>Sofie</em>, too wrapped up in the feeling of having her beneath him after so long… so long on the edge of should and shouldn’t.</p><p>Of <em>want to </em>and <em>can’t.</em></p><p>Sofie hitches a noise into his neck and he shifts off of her, distantly awareness of his size, of his weight and the differences between them as his cock slips out of her; dropping down beside her on the bed and scrubbing his hand through his hair while telling himself he doesn’t need to look again.</p><p>(That the shine on his cock, his hips, the shine between her thighs, spread over her mound and lower stomach, is more than enough to satisfy that little perverted itch inside of him to watch his cum leak out of her.)</p><p>Apparently, even at thirty-five, there are things he’s still learning about himself.</p><p>He looks his fill in a less…obvious way; lying beside her, the shine on her skin, the trembling shift of her chest, the little arc and curve of her spine from his arm still trapped beneath her lower back. Her cheeks flushed. Her lashes heavy as she blinks slowly.</p><p>It goes quiet until he feels Sofie pull in a long breath before letting it ease out of her chest. “I’m gonna need to buy more gold stars.”</p><p>He laughs, his eyes closing with it; tensing his bicep and curling his arm to tug her into his body. Smiling as Sofie groans and pouts, but comes willingly, rolling into him, her leg curving over his waist and her cheek hot against the damp of his chest as she sinks into his side.</p><p>He can feel the sticky heat between her thighs, the slide of her cunt over his hip and it spills along the back of his mind, a low-thrumming want to push back inside of her. Chase that heat and tightness, that moment of bliss on the first clenching slide it. But it’s dulled enough, by the ease in his body post-orgasm, that he closes his eyes and ignores it for now.</p><p>He strokes his hand over her thigh, her ass, the curve of her waist sloping down from her hip and feels her heart slowing against his ribs.</p><p>It’s late, he knows it has to be, but time slips away again, just like before; coming down from one round before the start of another. A quiet lull of skin and sex and sweat between them, until a lazy kiss or a lazy stroke (or a shift of her body or his), drags them back into the moment and he’s pushing back inside of her, swallowing up that little hitching gasp that slips out of her every time he does.</p><p>He has no idea what time it is, but he isn’t overly inclined to check— nowhere to be but here, no deadline, no obligations— he carved himself out a stolen bit of time to come here and he feels… <em>settled</em> by his choice. No matter how annoyed his PA is with him for the last-minute changes, or the impatient edge to his mother’s voice through the phone, with him pushing off his return to Jersey for a few days more.</p><p>He wonders if settled is even the right word, he feels… just like Simon had said, that some things matter more than waiting until you think you’re ready. That it’s less about being ready, and more about being willing to take the risk, to double-check the harness, not care about the distance, and just fucking <em>jump.</em></p><p>He feels Sofie prop her chin on her back of her hand, her palm warm on his chest.</p><p>Henry blinks down at her. Shifting his head on the pillow and folding his other arm up beneath it to look down at her better.</p><p>He likes her face, he thinks, the flushed-pink tint to her cheeks, the smudge of her mascara, the kiss-bite-sex-swollen plump of her lips.</p><p>It’s a nice face.</p><p>He groans a little, at the thought, at <em>himself</em>; rolling them both over until he’s on top of again, forearm braced beside her on the bed and burying his face in her neck.</p><p>Sofie gives a little <em>oof,</em> her breath pushed out of her chest by his weight, but he breathes out and tries to ignore that little, impossibly fucking unsated flickering flame inside of him that says, <em>yeah, you could absolutely go another round. Let’s do it.</em></p><p>He strokes his hand along her side, over the curve of her hip and thigh, up along her ribs, his thumb skirting the bottom curve of her breast. He feels the catch of her breath, the scratch of her nails on his braced arm, holding on as her hips give a slow little curl into the weight of his hip pressing into the sticky-wet heat of her cunt.</p><p>“Should I try for one more?” he says roughly, feeling that need rising into an itch along his spine, the slow-thickening of his cock, the way her chest trembles and leg curves up along his side in invitation. Her knee presses into his ribs, a little nudge up— and he lifts his head, kissing up her neck towards her mouth.</p><p>Part of him knows she has to be sore, but it’s overrun by that hot, smooth itch up his spine, and the way her lips feel, just sliding against his as she sucks in that little fucking breath before a kiss—</p><p>Her stomach growls in the quiet.</p><p>Henry laughs, dropping his face back into her neck. “Guess we should get something inside of you, huh?” he chuckles into her skin, nipping at her pulse point. “More than me again, anyway.”</p><p>Sofie laughs, shoving at his head and trying to squirm out from beneath him, her cheeks pinker than before, when he lifts his head to grin at her.  “That was <em>terrible</em>.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                He knows the kitchen already, but the dim glow of the lights beneath the cabinets on the walls remind him of Sofie in the video she sent, eating that cinnamon bun and telling him to <em>make a wish.</em></p><p>He feels a little caught in the moment, leaning against the counter and watching her, in an oversized t-shirt for some fundraiser at a hospital, her hair fraying out of those braids, moving through her kitchen to make something to satisfy that post-sex hunger he’s feeling, too… (in the absence of the immediate climbing need to keep fucking that was easier to give in to when they were both naked in her bed.)</p><p>“Oatmeal?” Sofie asks, looking over her shoulder at him, her nose wrinkling with her question.</p><p>He huffs a laugh. “Oatmeal, huh?”</p><p>She rolls her eyes, pulling out a bag of oats. “Don’t judge me. It’s <em>good</em>.”</p><p>“Oatmeal isn’t quite what most people would go for as a post-sex snack,” he teases, stepping up behind her to reach for a large glass measuring cup she’s tilting up on her toes to grab.</p><p>Sofie sniffs, turning to face him, stuck between him and the counter, lifting her chin in a little imperious tilt. “I’m being <em>respectful</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Respectful</em>,” he parrots, his lips tilting because it’s going to be something to make fun of him, isn’t it?</p><p>She reaches out with the flat of her palm and flaps it hollowly against his bare chest. “<em>Diet, blah, bulking, blah.”</em></p><p>“Aren’t you sweet,” he laughs, ducking down to press a kiss to her cheek. “Not always a chihuahua are you?”</p><p>Sofie laughs, turning her forehead into his chest, her hands curving over his sides, soft and warm. “Just don’t tell anyone, I got a rep to maintain, Cavill.”</p><p>He smiles, breathing out a laugh, his mouth opening to tease her when she makes this little choked noise, her hand pressing a little harder as she shifts a little in place; standing a bit straighter and tenser.</p><p>It’s not hard to piece together what’s happening. It <em>is</em> hard to ignore the desire to <em>look. </em> </p><p>“Having some issues down there, Sof?” He aims for teasing, but it comes out decidedly too rough.</p><p>“So <em>weird,</em>” Sofie mumbles into his chest, squeezing her thighs together as her nails sink into his ribs, pressing against him, her cheeks burning. “I think I need a paper towel.”</p><p>There’s a very nice image in his head that he’s trying very, very hard to ignore. He’s hit his threshold of perverted-indulgences tonight, he tells himself, <em>let's keep it a little more classy, eh, Cavill?</em></p><p>At least on their first… reconnection, anyway.</p><p>There’s paper towel just beside the sink, and he reluctantly moves away from her to reach for it, tearing off two sheets and handing them to her. Her cheeks are flushed beneath the fan of her eyelashes, and she glances up at him, her nose scrunching.</p><p>Her toes curl inside of her socks on the tile floor. The paper towel crinkles a bit in her fist.</p><p>He leans against the island behind him, waiting. He’s pretty sure she flushes <em>more.</em></p><p>“Do you have to <em>watch?</em>” she whines and then huffs and scowls at him when he laughs and crosses his arms.</p><p>“I’m into it, apparently. Don’t shame me, Sof.”</p><p>She presses her lips together, fighting a smile before turning it into a rumpled attempt at a glare and stepping around the other side of the island, blocking her lower half from view.</p><p>She looks at him triumphantly from across the kitchen.</p><p>“That’s <em>cheating</em>,” he says, fighting the smile that wants to break across his face, trying to look disapproving. Chastising, even. He imagines it falls far from the mark.</p><p>Sofie looks down, her hands moving out of sight as she wipes between her thighs, her nose scrunching again. “Should be familiar to you, then, huh?”</p><p>“Oh, low blow.”</p><p>“I’m very close to the ground, it’s very easy.”</p><p>He laughs, shaking his head. “Acceptance is the first step, I guess.”</p><p>Out of sight, her arm moves again, and he watches her look down at herself, before scrunching up the paper towel and chucking it at him. “Here, kinkster, it’s all yours.”</p><p>It doesn’t fly well, but he catches it anyway, laughing and moving towards the bin he saw earlier and stepping onto the little foot peddle that opens the lid. “Yeah, that’s not the part I was into. But, thanks.”</p><p>She grins at him, moving back to the oats and the measuring cup on the counter. “You’re like, <em>super</em> welcome. Apple cinnamon?”</p><p><em>Oh,</em> he grins, teasing as he moves to stand beside her.  “We’re getting fancy?”</p><p>Sofie laughs, elbowing him and telling him to grab apples from the fridge. “Totally not fancy. And I know you eat oatmeal too, so…”</p><p>“Yeah,” he shrugs, squinting into the brighter glow of the fridge when he opens it. “But mine’s just oats and protein and peanut butter. It’s more like… slightly wet cement, rather than oatmeal.”</p><p>Sofie pushes out her bottom lip. “Rough life, bro.”</p><p>“<em>Bro</em>,” he snorts, grabbing two apples and moving to the counter to start cutting on the cutting board lying there. “<em>Bro.”</em></p><p><em>“Bro,”</em> she grins cheekily at him from the stove. “I got some protein powder? If you want?”</p><p>He lifts his brows, pausing the snick-cut of the next slice of apple. “Oh, yeah?”</p><p>She nods, looking at him and lifting her arm to flex her bicep. “How do you think I got so <em>jacked</em>.”</p><p>The drape of her over-sized t-shirt hides her bicep almost comically as it hangs off her, the sleeve bunched in the corner of her elbow.</p><p>He reaches out with a thoughtful <em>hmm,</em> and pushes up the soft cotton, glancing at the bitten back smile on Sofie’s face, poking at the slight curve of her bicep.</p><p>“Those are indeed some very impressive baby muscles,” he says seriously, before jerking away from the flap of her hand smacking his away.</p><p>“<em>Baby</em>—” she says sharply, but there’s a grin on her mouth that belies the pitch of her indignation. “Excuse you!”</p><p>He laughs, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her back into his chest. “Baby muscles,” he laughs, feeling her laughter following his, her head tilting to lean against his shoulder, moving with him as he holds her with one arm and lifts his other arm to flex beside hers when she laughs and lifts her arm again. “Cute baby muscles.”</p><p>Flexing again, they laugh at the way her arm looks in front of his— before her laugh cuts off and she lets out a whiny groan, dropping her head back against his chest. “I think I need some underwear. And more paper towel.”</p><p>When his groan follows hers, she doesn’t shame him for it, leaning against him and letting him wrap his arm tighter around her waist, hunching a little to press a kiss to her neck.</p><p>“I’ll get it for you,” he mutters into her skin, trying to ignore the way his cock throbs with the images in his head, with the want to gather the over-large drape of her shirt up in his fist, peel it up until he can see her thighs and then her cunt, all of that slick-shine he left on her earlier. “Which drawer?”</p><p>She argues for a second, before giving in when he insists, telling him what drawer to open in that chest of drawers in her room, as she presses her thighs together tighter.</p><p>Henry reluctantly lets her and the image go… or rather, he packs it up into a neat little box labelled: <em>‘To Be Re-examined Thoroughly At Some Point In The Near Future’,</em> before turning and heading upstairs on quiet, bare feet.</p><p> </p><p>           Sofie’s room is dark but for the pale glow of moonlight spilling in through the window; Henry squints a little into the half-dark, over at the chest of drawers against the wall near the door to her bathroom.</p><p>It’s strange to think how he knows her room already, just from the glimpses of it during skype calls; watching her move around her room, slip out of sight to change, or opening… the second drawer down… he bites back a smile when he sees the array of socks folded and bundled up inside. (<em>My feet are like, always cold,</em> she’d said with a shrug, pulling on a pair that had little pigs with wings on them.)</p><p>He shuts the drawer quietly, reaching for the one above it and— and he really <em>isn’t</em> a pervert, so he grabs the first pair he sees that isn’t something lacy because he figures that <em>really</em>, cum can’t be doing any favours for lace, can it?</p><p>Sliding the drawer shut, he turns to leave when something catches his eye on one of the side tables on either side of her bed</p><p>Henry frowns, his curiosity piked and unavoidable, moving closer until he realises what it is.</p><p>Sitting right there, on the top of her side-table, a dog-eared copy of The Witcher. It’s obviously bought second hand… <em>or from the bookstore/library where she works,</em> he thinks, picking the book up and ignoring the… warmth that spills inside of his chest; a slow smile spreading across his face as he sees the bookmark sitting a few chapters in… further than where he left off that time she fell asleep when he read to her.</p><p>Smiling into the quiet dark of her room, Henry makes himself set the book back down, but looks at it for another moment, sitting so innocuously at her bedside, but so full of… of some sort of meaning, before he turns to go, heading back downstairs to the girl waiting.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                In the kitchen, Sofie is lit by the glow of the lights under the cabinets, and he lingers at the edge, watching her cut the apples he started (and abandoned in favour of touching her,) into smaller chunks; her shirt slipping a little off her shoulder with every <em>snick</em> of the knife against the cutting board.</p><p>The microwave glows 11:37 as he moves into the kitchen stepping up behind her and turning her to face him with a hand on her elbow.</p><p>He kisses her quietly, with the book behind his eyelids, with the smell of cinnamon spreading in the kitchen, with the crisp taste of an apple on her tongue and the sticky juice on her fingers sliding over his wrist when she grips onto it as his hand slides along her cheek to tilt her head a little higher.</p><p>They break apart for air, her eyes on his, and Henry presses one more light kiss to her lips before sinking down to his knees.</p><p>Sofie pulls in a breath. “What are—” she starts, as he’s sitting back on his haunches and holding out her underwear for her to step into.</p><p>He looks up at her, waiting, but doesn’t say anything as her eyes shift over his face.</p><p><em>Let me, </em>he thinks, but he isn’t sure he has the words to ask for what he wants with her yet, so he waits.</p><p>For her hand to touch on his shoulder, hesitant at first, before bracing against him. With her back to the lights, it’s hard to tell if the way her eyes cast down and her bottom lip gets dragged between her teeth means she’s embarrassed or turned on, but when her socked-foot leaves the floor, Henry holds himself still as she balances herself and steps into her underwear, one foot at a time.</p><p>Her hand tightens on his shoulder as he pulls her underwear up, his knuckles dragging along the soft skin of her legs… and when he gets nearer to the apex of her thighs—  <em>there’s</em> the shine on her skin that he’s been thinking about, right there between her legs.</p><p>Sofie pulls in a little breath when the slow climb of his hands causes the slow climb of her shirt; higher and higher until his knuckles are pressing into the soft skin just at the starting curve of her bottom and her toes curl in her socks, a little shift of her body… nerves or eagerness, or both, maybe.</p><p>He ducks his head, leaning forward just as he sees the first curve of her cunt, the slickness shinier, still slick instead of sticky and drying on her skin… and presses a kiss right above her seam.</p><p>Sofie’s breath catches, her nails scraping his skin as he drags her underwear higher, even though he’d like to nudge her legs apart and sink his fingers inside of her. Pressing another kiss against her mound right before he settles the underwear in place on her hips.</p><p>He leans back, his fingers still hooked on the side of her hips, Sofie looks down at him, her lips parted, her eyes on his— until her hand slides up, unto the curve of his neck and jaw to urge him up.</p><p>He goes quickly, all at once, shifting his grip to her hips and hauling her up on to the counter as Sofie’s arm wraps around his neck. She pulls herself up and into him, dragging his mouth to hers awkwardly, eagerly, a little whine in the back of her throat.</p><p>Her other hand sinks between them, her teeth scraping his lip as she snaps the button of his jeans, fighting the zipper with unsteady fingers before shoving at the front of his jeans; he slides his thumb over the front of underwear, curving his hand just enough to gather the cotton beneath his thumb and drag it to the side…</p><p>It blurs together after that, his cock in her fist, her head thumping against the edge of kitchen cabinets behind her when he pushes inside of her too quickly, his apology lost to her cheek, the noise that breaks out of her, her bracing an arm behind herself as he drags her ass closer to the edge of the counter, her legs curving around him to pull him deeper—</p><p>It’s a perfect sort of blur, really, full of skin and sex and cinnamon.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                   Henry spoons an extra glob of peanut butter on his oatmeal as Sofie slides onto the stool next to him at the kitchen island. The microwave glows a steady 12:26 am, but when she smiles at him, he doesn’t care at all how late it is, or that he’s been up since before six.</p><p>Her tongue scrapes over her spoon and she glances at him before looking away. She’s done it twice now.</p><p>“So, you’re like, into that, huh?”</p><p>“Into what?” he asks, scooping his first mouthful and enjoying the melted, thick peanut butter over the still slightly crisp apples.</p><p>“The, uh… you know,” she starts, with a vague gesture to her lower body.</p><p>He frowns, trying to follow what she means; he lifts a brow and Sofie rolls her eyes.</p><p>“The cum thing.”</p><p>“Ah,” he pushes out trying to fight his smile. “<em>The cum thing.</em>”</p><p><em>I am apparently very into it,</em> he thinks.</p><p>“I mean, like out of curiosity,” she starts again, dragging her spoon through the oatmeal before shifting a little in her seat with a little wince that he can’t help but notice. “No shame, seriously. I’m just… curious if it’s like… you know, a thing for you? Like, you prefer, uh, you know— not using condoms?”</p><p>She bites her lip. “You just seemed… you were pretty careful about using them before.”</p><p>He laughs because that isn’t <em>quite</em> true, is it? (One shower, one naked girl and all his reasons, all his rules and senses… disappeared beneath the reality of the girl in front of him.)</p><p>He isn’t sure how he feels about it, yet. Guilty and not. Pleased and nervous. Fucking <em>gloating</em> and stupid.</p><p>Sofie rolls her eyes again, laughing out a little shocked sound when he reaches out for the seat of her stool and drags it and the girl on it, closer to his side.</p><p>“It’s definitely not a <em>thing,</em>” he says knocking his thigh into hers. “Or at least, it <em>wasn’t </em>a thing.”</p><p>At her look, the curious little smile on her mouth, he grins. “Is it a thing for you?”</p><p>She shakes her head. “Never… you know, done it without a condom before… so,” she laughs a little with a shrug before grinning at him. “Guess it’s a thing now.”</p><p>(The gloating bits of him perk up a bit at <em>that,</em> he can’t lie<em>.)</em></p><p>He stamps them down, back into the hindbrain where they belong. It’s not the time to give in to the caveman bits of his brain that like the idea of all that… claiming and marking and other things that are very much associated with fucking her bare.</p><p>Another time, maybe.</p><p>He lifts a brow, spooning another mouthful of oatmeal and speaking around it. “Never?”</p><p>Sofie shakes her head, “Nope.” She’s quiet for a minute, glancing at him, her spoon dragging through the oatmeal. “Have you?”</p><p>“Not for quite a long time,” he says honestly. And it is true. He was raised to be responsible, from his parents to his schooling to older brothers who’d laid it all out, fact for fact and chucked his first box of condoms at his head— and more than that, even. Over the years since his career took off and his name meant a bit more, since recognition came on eyesight, on: <em>oh, you’re that guy— or I’ve seen you—</em></p><p>
  <em>You’re Superman.</em>
</p><p>From management to agents to co-workers. Being <em>careful</em> was a tried and true warning.</p><p>Trust is hard to come by and harder to keep.</p><p>“Really?” she asks, looking doubtful. (And, he thinks, a bit hopeful, too.)</p><p>He can’t blame her, he was… he gave in <em>very</em> easily in that moment in the shower, had wanted to, minutes before in the bed—</p><p>He doesn’t have a good excuse for it other than a very real, very unavoidable little truth:</p><p>That there’s something different with Sofie, and it’s been there since the beginning. Right since the start.</p><p>It’s hard to reconcile. Hard to resolve. At thirty-five, Henry knows he’s had a bit of habit of rushing into relationships in the past. Flying high on that honeymoon period of liking someone. The excitement of meeting someone. The idea of the relationship, more than the reality of one.</p><p>But it’s <em>different</em> with Sofie. He can’t explain it, can’t sort it out into words yet, it just <em>is.</em></p><p>“Really,” he says, and leans forward, ducking his head to press a kiss to her cheek. “It’s apparently, very much a <em>Sofie-Thing.”</em></p><p>He enjoys the small, pleased smile that spreads on her face, the peek of her dimples as she turns her head, a little bubble of laughter, her cheeks pinking.</p><p> “Guess it’s a <em>Cavill-Thing</em> for me too,” she admits, glancing at him before taking another bite of oatmeal, her dimples still firmly deep in her cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>(The caveman bits of him are all for that.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sofie’s cheek is soft on her pillow, curled up and facing him, their stomachs full of oatmeal, breath minty fresh, the time of night finally catching up to them.</p><p>“Tell me something,” she says blinking slowly at him.</p><p>“Like what?” he mutters, reaching out to push back a wavy, loose piece of hair from one of her braids off her forehead.</p><p>“Anything,” she says with a little smile. “About you. That no one else knows.”</p><p>He breathes out a quiet laugh. “Alright, if you tell me something about Sofie that no one else knows.”</p><p>She nods, curling her hand up near her face on her pillow, her lips twitching up. “Sure.”</p><p>He has to think, of things he’s said in interviews, off-hand comments, things he’s told friends or family… if he’s ever confessed something in the quiet of the night to a girlfriend or a one-night stand where some things can spill out when it seems like nothing really matters in the moment.</p><p>He looks at Sofie and settles deeper into her bed, letting his fingers drift over her ear and the braid spilling over her shoulder.</p><p>It’s easier than it should be finding something to say, but he starts lighter, because…</p><p>Just because.</p><p>“I don’t really like football,” he says with a quirk to his lips. “American football, that is. But I pretend to enjoy it more than I do because of my job. Appealing to the great American fanbase, and all that.”</p><p>Sofie fakes a shocked breath. “How <em>terrible</em> of you, I can’t believe you’d lie about something so serious.” She grins. “I’m trying very hard not to judge you too badly.”</p><p>“I know,” he says seriously. “I’m quite ashamed of myself. But Americans are very into football, I was trying not to offend by saying it’s a fucking wimpy version of rugby.”</p><p>She laughs. “I watched some videos on rugby, it’s a lot rougher than football, huh?”</p><p>He smiles. “Did you?”</p><p>Sofie rolls her eyes but her cheeks tint a little. “Might’ve.”</p><p>He chuckles; a little warmth in his stomach at hearing it. “It is. Nothing like it. Outside of boxing or MMA, of course.”</p><p>Sofie shrugs, “Take your word on that, I’m not a big sport fan in general.”</p><p>“I promise not to judge you for that,” he teases. “Now you.”</p><p>Sofie hums, blinking slowly, her lashes heavy as she looks away, thinking. “I’m saving up to move out, it’s why I work so much even though I live at home.”</p><p>“Are you?” he asks and settles his arm over her side over the blankets. He’d wondered of course, through all their talking and texting and Skyping, her work schedule was nearly as busy as his.</p><p>She nods. “Mm-hm, I haven’t told anyone because… because my friends would offer to move in with me, even though… well Sara is happy at home and Lee already has a place with some of his guy friends, but… I want to do it on my own, anyway.”</p><p>“Are you not happy here?”<br/><br/>She shrugs, looking away and fiddling with the corner of her pillow. “I dropped out of school, uhm… my third year of university? I don’t think my mother’s ever forgiven me,” she says with a little puff of weak laughter.</p><p>He frowns, because what sort of statement is that? His parents aren’t perfect, no parents are, but they supported his choices throughout all the ups and downs of his career and he can’t imagine— he can’t imagine them being <em>angry</em> and unforgiving about his career choices. “What, why?”</p><p>“I’m not like, stupid, you know. I know I… I work, you know, a kind of a silly job but—”</p><p>He frowns. “I don’t think you’re stupid, Sofie.”</p><p>She looks at him, then away and shrugs. “I got good grades, you know, it wasn’t like I couldn’t do it. I was set to take the—I just—” she trails off and then shrugs again, forcing a smile. “Sorry, that’s way too much. I just meant, I want to move out and sort of, figure myself out, you know. Do it on my own.”</p><p>“It’s not too much,” he frowns, searching her face because he’s almost <em>angry</em> at the idea of it, knowing she’s had this going on— he looks at her, thinking about how happy she always seems, searching her face even when she looks away her lashes sinking, her fingers plucking at her pillowcase.</p><p>It’s quiet for a beat too long and he isn’t sure if he should push, if it’s his place—</p><p>“You weren’t happy in university, then?”</p><p>She hesitates, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling.</p><p>Is it his place yet?</p><p>As a friend, or more, whatever definition they’re caught between right now.</p><p>He wants it to be more, but he doesn’t want to push her into anything, knowing that there’s nothing easy about being with him. That there are still reasons—</p><p>That they do, most definitely, need to talk about what they’re doing.</p><p>He reaches out for her, curling his arm over her waist and pulling her into him; Sofie lets him drag her back into his chest and she curls up facing away from him as he presses a kiss to her shoulder.</p><p>“I never went to college. Sometimes I still feel like my career is silly, compared to my brothers, especially my older brothers who both went into the military.”</p><p>“Really?” she asks, her head turning a little towards him, he watches her eyelashes, the curve of her cheek. Her fingers slip slowly over his, small and soft over the rougher edges of his, hesitant almost, along the back of his fingers until he spreads his wider, threading their fingers until they fold together and tuck beneath her stomach.</p><p><em>Mmhm, </em>he hums into her shoulder. “Most of the time, I know it doesn’t matter. That everything matters in some way, but it still bothers me occasionally.”</p><p> “How do you get over it?”</p><p>“Donating money or my time,” he says honestly. “Like kids in hospitals, or… things like that, really. Fundraisers. Events. Things where it’s just me, no press or social media shit.”</p><p>“So, you’re like, real-life Superman, then.”</p><p>“Not quite,” he chuckles. “But I think that— that drive to do good that he has, with the luck I’ve had since playing him, has an impact on how I try to live my life now.”</p><p>She’s quiet for a beat. “I have no idea what I want to do with my life.”</p><p>“You don’t have to, a lot of people don’t.”</p><p>“I have… I was going to be a doctor. I have the grades for it. The… you know. <em>Smarts</em>, or whatever.”</p><p>He’s not going to pretend he isn’t a little surprised, because perception is… a lot, and Sofie has to be five-foot-nothing in her socked feet and her dimples are as sweet as her laughter is— and it’s a shame to think people are judged so easily on appearances, but it’s a fact no different than most wanting him to be that all-typical, all-American or all-British man, compared to the theatre-kid, fantasy-loving, <em>nerd</em> he is.</p><p>Sofie’s the lip-syncing girl with the too-cute smile and the ass to match, running on a treadmill in a little hotel gym.</p><p>“Were you?”</p><p>She nods. “I’m <em>supposed</em> to be. Always was. My mom… well, you know she’s a doctor and I’ve grown up around that life and— you know, her putting herself through school and interning and all that, and… it was just like, expected.”</p><p>“Expectations are not usually a reality.”</p><p>Sofie shrugs and gives a quiet laugh. “Nope, but anyway…  what else don’t you know about me?” she trails off and Henry frowns a little, at the deflection— but he isn’t sure if he should press more, so when she speaks again, he lets her change the subject.</p><p>He isn’t sure if it’s the right choice, and he files away the concern, this new bit of her, her mother, her schooling, her job—until he can think about it later, this new fact of Sofie Miller.</p><p>“I hate seafood,” she says, lighter than before. “Which, you know, Maine’s like <em>fishing</em> and <em>lobster</em> and all that, so it’s like, sacrilege.”</p><p>He laughs. “Oh, I can beat that… I don’t like tea very much. I think it’s very overrated. Hot leaf water.”</p><p>Sofie sucks in a breath, “<em>No,</em> you <em>can’t</em>! You’re British! It goes against every stereotype I know!”</p><p>He grins. “It’s shameful, I know. It’s a secret I have to live with, out of fear of being excommunicated from the empire.”</p><p>Sofie laughs out, “As an American, you’re very welcome for the Boston Tea Party, then.”</p><p>He laughs with her and tugs her closer. “Though to be completely honest, I’m not <em>exactly</em> British. Jersey is Crown Dependency, which means we’re mostly independent.”</p><p>“Ah,” she says with a giggle. “So, you’re still building up to your Tea Party then, huh? If you need any tips…”</p><p>Pinching her stomach and making her jolt and laugh, he says with a grin, “You Americans, always thinking you know best.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>               </p><p> </p><p>               </p><p> </p><p>               </p><hr/>
<hr/><p>               </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Sofie wakes, boneless and weighed down, breathing in cotton and sleep-warm air. She smiles sleepily as she realises the weight holding her down is Henry pressed up against her; his arm heavy over her stomach holding her against his front despite how curled up she is. His head takes up more than half of her pillow, his arm tucked beneath it, his breath warm and soft on the back of her head.</p><p>His heartbeat is steady against her spine, and he’s pressed so close she can feel every thump, every shift of his chest, the soft-prickle of his chest hair on her back.</p><p>Smiling into her pillow, Sofie looks at his arm, hand, lax in sleep; the veins in his forearm twisting towards the back of his hand, the thickness of his fingers, (the memory of them sinking inside of her, shiny and slick on her hip.)</p><p>Henry’s chest shifts behind her, expanding with a breath, weighing her down a little more as his hand twitches, his other arm tensing around her waist, tugging her into him a little more.</p><p>His cock burns against the curve of her ass as his hips press forward in this slow little roll of his hips; he makes a noise behind her, a rough-rolling thing that thrums against her spine as he presses his lips to the back of her head with a puff of warm air.</p><p>Sofie bites her cheek as the feeling of it flickers through her, as his hand moves to spread over her stomach, caressing over it, fingers long over her ribs, thumb stroking lower, teasingly low before he eases upwards, fingertips brushing along the underside of her breast… back down again, over her side, her hip, spreading to cup her ass cheek as his fingers dip lower, right along the seam of her. Right where his cock lies thick and heavy behind her.</p><p>Sofie twitches, breathing out as his fingers brush lightly over her, a noise in his throat that’s a little rougher than before as he presses closer, his head tilting, lips on the side of her neck.</p><p>“This,” he mumbles sleepily with that rough morning voice that does something unfair to her insides. “Is what the first morning should have been.”</p><p>She wants to laugh at that, but she pictures it in her head instead, (that first morning, waking up with him around her in that hotel bed,) as his hand slides over her hip, slipping along her lower stomach in a slow stroke, his fingers slipping over her mound…lower and lower until his fingers slip between her legs and he’s stroking them slowly over her clit.</p><p>She’s wet, (from last night, from now, from him just <em>existing</em>, still leaking him even all these hours later, she thinks,) and sore, a dull, over-sensitive ache as his fingers stroke and slip over her clit. A little bruise-ache that does something inside of she can’t explain. (That same ache she had the first morning, after the rounds he took her through, his mouth and fingers and hands and teeth and tongue and cock… until they’d passed out. Until she’d woken up, snuck out and carried him in that bruise-ache in her body, all day.)</p><p>She wants that again, she thinks, as her hips twitch and his roll forward, his cock thick and hard and teasingly close, burning hot beneath her.  Wants him to leave her aching and bruised to carry him with her for as long as she can.</p><p>Henry kisses the pulse beating in the side of her neck before his hand slips away from her clit, slipping wetly towards her hip, palm spreading on her thigh as he grips it in the width of his hand and urges it up and back, to hook behind his thigh.</p><p>It opens her up in a way that makes her think of that second morning, that moment right before her mother knocked on the door, (the weight of his cock, slicking over her, his hands on her, the moment stretching out before breaking into the knock.)</p><p>She can’t stay still this time, her hips pushing back, knowing that this time… this time he’s going to push inside of her, isn’t he?</p><p>Henry’s hand slides over her stomach, spread wide as she squirms against him, like he’s just… feeling the roll of her body. It burns up inside of her, makes her cheeks flush, her body sparking with the idea of it— him just… enjoying her. Feeling her.</p><p>And then his hand slides down her stomach, his fingers slipping back between her legs, soft and warm and sticky as strokes over her, a lazy, full of just-feeling stroke; bringing that little bruise-ache back as she gets wetter, as he rubs over her clit, her hips rolling back into his, gripping at his forearm as his cock burns right along the inside of her thigh.</p><p>There’s a <em>c’mon</em> slipping off her tongue before she can stop it, and his chest rumbles against her back as he sinks his fingers lower, gripping his cock and when the fat head of it brushes her entrance and slips over it… she whines, desperate for it, no matter that bruise-ache she can feel as his cock rubs against her.</p><p>Henry's head lifts off the pillow to kiss her pulse, scraping his teeth over her shoulder; breath warm and heavy on her skin as he rocks his hips, cock slipping over her, up over her mound, over her lower stomach, just like that second morning…</p><p>And then he’s easing back and in one slow, syrupy push, sliding all thick and hard inside of her.</p><p>Sofie sucks in a breath because it <em>hurts</em> in this way that makes her burn up with it, like pressing against a bruise or the pressure of sinking her teeth into the inside of her cheek, good and bad all at once.</p><p>Her hand flies back, twisting into his hair and it tugs a groan out of his chest, his forehead pressing against her shoulder as he pushes up inside of her in these slow little rocking pulses.</p><p>His mouth is hot on her skin as his fingers slip off his cock to rub at her clit. His hips stop moving, but hers twitch, roll, squirm back onto his cock as he rubs her, and it makes her needy, desperate for him to move again, but he stays still until she’s dripping with it, until there’s that little slick noise in the air between them.</p><p>Until her cheeks are burning and she’s gasping and squirming on his cock.</p><p>“<em>C’mon</em>—” she whines, desperate and needy and already so <em>close</em><em>. “Henry.”</em></p><p>When he moves again, it’s to Sofie’s nails scraping at his scalp, tugging at his hair, his teeth in the meat of her shoulder, his hips rolling up, his hand spread on her lower stomach, his fingers weighted and slippery on her clit.</p><p>It’s… <em>too much,</em> he fills her up slowly like sugary-sweet molasses, pooling and dripping and burning inside of her. Hips rocking against hers, his stomach tensing, chest hair pricking against her back, their bodies pressed so tightly together.</p><p>He sinks in as deep as he can get at this angle on every push, and it’s somehow too deep and not deep enough; the awareness that he can get deeper mixed with the ache from the night before.</p><p>But there’s something about the ache blending and blurring into his hips pushing against her ass on every pulse up inside of her, his teeth and mouth on her shoulder, the way she can feel so much of him, the way everything stays slow and syrupy and <em>spilling—</em></p><p>Sofie burns up on every rolling, lazy push of his cock inside of her, until her thigh is trembling and her chest is trembling and her toes are curling because she <em>can’t,</em> can’t stay still—</p><p>And then all of her is nothing but this building, bright burning, electrical nerve endings that spark brighter and brighter until—</p><p>Until she’s gasping and squirming and hitching out these noises and sounds she can’t explain— and more as he fucks her through it, his hand pressed heavy against her lower stomach and mound, holding her in place as his hips press against her ass, working his cock into the spasming, clenching grip of cunt as she comes.</p><p>Henry groans behind her, his teeth sinking into her shoulder, his hand holding her against him as he shoves up once, twice more behind her, before his cock throbs inside of her, his hips grinding as he spills inside of her.</p><p>His hand keeps her still, his hips tight against her, moving in these little grinding pulses like he wants to sink deeper, his heart thudding, cum hot and slick inside of her.</p><p>His hand slips over her stomach and she eases her grip on his hair, her arm dropping down in front of them in an ungainly little <em>flop</em> as he kisses over her shoulder and neck, nosing at her skin as they both catch their breath.</p><p>She’s boneless, letting him stroke her skin, over her stomach, side, hip, thigh, feeling the twitch of her muscles, the slow easing of her body coming down from orgasm.</p><p>It’s <em>nice.</em></p><p>“Mornin',” he says lowly behind her and Sofie laughs, stretching out and enjoying the feeling of him still inside of her, the way his hand spreads on her skin, the way his hips push into her just a little more to hold her where she is.</p><p>It’s <em>nice.</em></p><p>“Good morning,” she smiles and squirms a little closer into his hold because she can, because he’s here—</p><p><em>Because he came to see her</em>.</p><p>Sofie is officially worth a second bang. (Or a third, a fourth, a what? eighth?)</p><p>She grins at nothing.</p><p>The morning sun is still a little dim and she wonders what time it is, but just as she does, there’s a steady vibrating noise and Henry groans behind her.</p><p><em>His phone,</em> she thinks, as he braces a hand on her hip and kisses the back of her shoulder like a little apology as he pulls back, his cock slipping out of her.</p><p>Sofie winces a little, the ache of him leaving her empty mixes with the soreness from the night before, but she rolls over and watches as he shifts off the bed, reaching for his pants on the floor. Watching the flex and play of his muscles in his back and bicep, the way his hand drags through his hair.</p><p>She can feel the slickness of his cum between her thighs and even though she’s sore, she can’t help the little bit of want that comes surging, his cock soft but slick from being inside of her, thick and long even now.</p><p>Henry grabs his phone and sinks back down beside her on the bed, leaning against her pillows and dragging her into his chest. Sofie laughs a little, letting him manhandle her.</p><p>With her hand tucked beneath her chin, she props her head on his chest, watching Henry’s thumb swipe over the screen and typing in his passcode while his other snakes beneath the blanket and curves over her ass.</p><p>She tries not to look at his phone, but she can’t help but notice that he isn’t… isn’t at all concerned with her seeing anything.</p><p>It’s surprising in a weirdly nice way. Most people she knows, herself included, don’t enjoy having anyone just… watching what they’re doing on their phones.</p><p>She isn’t sure what to do with the fact that he doesn’t seem to care. But it’s there all the same.</p><p>He sends a few texts and she drops her cheek to his chest, letting him do what he needs to do as his hand strokes her skin absently.</p><p>He’s very…touchy… it’s hard not to notice all the ways he touches her, sometimes without any reason at all— and Sofie is surprisingly into it.</p><p>Eventually, just as Sofie thinks she could fall asleep again, lulled by his heartbeat and body heat, Henry shifts, dropping his phone down onto the bed and reaching up to tug his hand through his hair again.</p><p>A thought pops into her head as his chest shifts in a long exhale beneath her cheek and his hand curves over her arm on his chest. She remembers him saying it once, that <em>Sometimes I don’t always get last say on how my day goes.</em></p><p>“You’re not supposed to be here, huh?”</p><p>He’s quiet for a minute, his hand coming up to play with the frighteningly-frayed braid curving over her shoulder.</p><p>“Not exactly, no,” he starts, dragging the braid through his hand and winding it around his palm before giving it a little tug. “But it’s more that my family expected me home than anything else. Nothing a few texts won’t solve, nothing to worry about.”</p><p>Sofie nods against his chest, not sure if that’s <em>entirely</em> true— because he has a whole <em>life</em> away from her and he’s probably— no, she <em>knows</em>, he’s a busy guy—but—</p><p>She’d like to just… stay in bed forever, hide beneath the blankets with him, where the real world doesn’t matter and he doesn’t have any obligations other than maybe spending the day with her. Like, inside of her, maybe.</p><p>With a few forays out for oatmeal, too, of course.</p><p>It’s a nice little fantasy for the moment or two she lets herself think about it.</p><p>“When’s your flight?”</p><p>“Tomorrow morning,” his voice rumbles in his chest and then he’s rolling over her, forcing her onto her back, braced on an elbow to keep a bit of his weight off of her, dropping his mouth to her neck to press a kiss there. “That alright?”</p><p>Sofie nods and hesitates before following his touchiness-level and spreading her hands over his arms, over the thick of his shoulders, the tense of his muscles, up his neck and into his hair, humming out an <em>mmhmm.</em></p><p>It’s <em>his</em> stomach that growls this time, and she smiles, breathing out a little laugh, carding her fingers through his hair.</p><p>He mumbles something into her skin, ducking down to press a biting kiss to the pink of her nipple before pushing a little off of her, leaning more on his elbow and looking down at her.</p><p>She kind of wants him to do it again.</p><p>He looks like he wants to do it again.</p><p>“Guess that means we’re getting up?” she asks and watches his eyes flick down to her chest before moving back to her face.</p><p>He pulls a face. “I guess.”</p><p>His eyes drop down again, and he ducks his head to kiss her nipple again, slower this time.</p><p>Sofie groans and pushes at his head, rolling away from him, ignoring the very real want to have him fuck her again. She’s torn between staying in bed with him and the hunger that she can feel, too; knowing he must be even hungrier. One bowl of oatmeal can’t have much sustaining power on someone his size.</p><p>She pushes up, bracing her hand on the bed, wincing a little at the ache in her lower body as she slips off the bed. She stumbles a little as she gets her feet beneath her, surprised at how achy her thighs feel, how unsteady her legs are, and she has to brace herself a little on the bed because <em>wow,</em> the feeling between her hips is <em>something.</em></p><p><em>Definitely</em> more sore than the last time they did this. (But she likes it, probably more than she should.)</p><p>She’s slick and sticky, and she can feel his cum slipping out even more as she stands at the edge of her bed and looks at him, still lying there and watching her.</p><p>His eyes sink over her and Sofie fights the nagging little urge to cover herself. She’s not <em>uncomfortable</em> in her body, she’s just overly aware of how she might be raining champ of the itty-bitty-titty committee of Maine.</p><p>(And she did, once, look up his exes and they were… a but curvier than her and it was, maybe, something she noticed. Like, a little bit.)</p><p>Pressing her toes into the rug beside her bed, Sofie shivers, she wants to make a joke, but the words get stuck in her throat as she looks at him looking at her. “Shower?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                In the bathroom, with the shower on to warm up, Sofie feels Henry lingering behind her near the door, he’s naked, half-hard, and sleep-tousled.</p><p>And like, way too attractive.</p><p>In the mirror, she’s overly aware of him lingering and watching quietly as Sofie reaches for the elastic that’s wrapped around the end of her braid. She’s trying not to think about how naked she is, and how she should have grabbed a shirt— but she works her fingers into the twists of her braid and gets half of it undone before Henry’s moving— stepping up behind her.</p><p>His hands come up, and quietly, without a word, he overtakes her fingers on her braid.</p><p>Her hands float there for a moment, before sinking to rest on the vanity.  </p><p>Slowly and methodically, Henry works his fingers through her braid and Sofie sneaks glances before just giving in and watching.</p><p>He’s tall behind her, and she wonders if it’s something she’ll ever get used to, the broadness and thickness of him. How her head just barely rests on his chest, how she feels in the heat and weight of his gravity…</p><p>She wonders if she’ll <em>get</em> the chance to get used to it.</p><p>Her hair is a mess, but Henry works his fingers through the undone strands, easing the crimps into a softer, less frayed wave— before moving onto the other side.</p><p>Sofie tilts her head a little, giving him better access; she feels a little weird letting him, but… but she’s enjoying it, too.</p><p>When he finishes the other side, he leans down to drop a kiss to her shoulder before pulling her back against his chest with his hand on her ribs; his eyes find hers in the mirror and Sofie tilts her head back, leaning it against his chest.</p><p>“Want to spend the day with me, Sofie?” he asks, low and warm behind her.</p><p>She huffs a little laugh. “That’s a stupid question.”</p><p>“I ask a lot of those, apparently,” he says with his lips curling up as his other hand slips over her chest, his thumb stroking over the cold, pebbled peak of her nipple. Sofie shivers and can’t ignore the half-hard weight of his cock pressing into her spine. His hand slides higher, until he cups her throat, tilting her head back.</p><p>“Is that a yes?”</p><p>Her insides twist at the heat of his palm, the span of his hand; the shower hums behind them, the steam filling her small bathroom, slowly crawling over the mirror until they’re nothing but two peachy, hazy blurs.</p><p><em>Yes,</em> she says, and it’s almost too quiet.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Henry’s hotel is more like a little boutique inn that Sofie’s never really paid much mind to before, but it’s nice, the older lady at the desk doesn’t even give them a second glance when Henry leads Sofie up to his room, nothing more than a genial <em>good morning</em>, <em>Mister Cavill, </em>and a friendly smile.</p><p>In his room, she drops onto the fluffy grey duvet and watches him pull clothes out of the duffel bag he was carrying when he showed up at her work.</p><p>She wonders again if he really did come right from the airport to see her, and she can’t stop her smile from twitching across her face, that fizzy, bubbling feeling that she gets whenever she thinks about… whatever the hell is going on between them.</p><p>She watches him strip out of his day-old clothes… she isn’t going to pretend she doesn’t enjoy the way he looks, popping the button on his jeans, his thumbs tucking into the waistband, the thick of his waist, that trail of hair leading down to his cock… the flex of his chest as he shoves down his jeans, the soft, but still thick of his cock hanging between his thighs. She knew he’s been commando since the night before, but it’s another thing to just see him all— all <em>him </em>like<em>.</em></p><p>It’s kinda hot.</p><p>“Enjoying yourself there, Sofie?” he says with a crooked little smirk and a drawl. She drags her eyes back up to his face, ignoring the little bubble of embarrassment inside her chest at being caught staring.</p><p>She grins, leaning back on the bed, bracing herself on her hands and crossing one knee over the other, bouncing her foot. “Maybe.”</p><p><em>Uhuh, </em>he hums, pulling on a pair of black boxer-briefs and a pair of pants she thinks she recognizes from New York. It trips her back in time a bit, watching him pull on activewear, the looser pants, the grey tank-top, a zippered jacket. Sofie looks down at her own active clothes, toeing off her sneakers before folding her legs up beneath her on the bed and watching Henry fold up his day-old clothes into a laundry bag and stuff it back into his duffel.</p><p> There’s a knock on the door, just as he’s finishing and she sits a little straighter, feeling weirdly caught— exposed— <em>something</em>, sitting on Henry’s bed in a hotel room. She isn’t sure why, Henry doesn’t look anything but his normal, sure self, opening the door for the room service.</p><p>She feels like she’s wearing a very real sign that says, <em>we’ve had </em>so<em> much sex.</em></p><p>So much sex that walking is just a little bit tortuous, but also like, so <em>good</em>.</p><p>An older gentleman pushes in a silver cart and nods when Henry tells him not to worry about unloading the trays onto the small table in the room.</p><p>“Thanks, mate,” he says and hands the man a tip in the palm of his hand. “Tell the staff thanks as well, I appreciate the accommodations.”</p><p>After the door shuts, with her stomach rumbling at the smell of food, she slips off the bed and lingers near Henry’s side as he lifts the silver dome over the food and lets more of that breakfast-y wonderful smell spread in the room.</p><p>He nudges her towards a seat when she moves to help him set the table, and Sofie rolls her eyes, but slips into a chair, folding her legs beneath her and watching him set out the two plates and cutlery before handing her a fresh-pressed green juice that he steals a sip from.</p><p>“S’good,” he says, but takes the water and the coffee pitcher and sets it closer to his side of the table.</p><p><em>It is,</em> she thinks when she takes her a sip, fresh with orange juice, something sweeter, maybe pineapple and pressed together with spinach and kale.</p><p>“Is this how you always travel?” she asks as he scoops some of the eggs onto her plate and forks some sausage down next to it. “I never really thought about the fact you can’t just go to any restaurant and get what you need to eat.”</p><p>“More or less,” he says with a shrug. “It’s definitely a factor in picking the places to stay. Most places will accommodate my… pickier habits. But I also don’t like just showing up somewhere and demanding to have things done a certain way. Better to set something up first, more respectful, I think.”</p><p>Sofie nods, watching Henry plate up his own food. “What if a place like this didn’t have what you’d eat?”</p><p>“I’d arrange for them to get it,” he says with a crooked grin. “Which sounds awful, but I’d pay for the trouble. This place was pretty open to anything, which was nice.”</p><p>“It doesn’t sound awful, no different than like, having an allergy or something, right?” Sofie waits until Henry sinks into his seat before lifting her fork and digging into her breakfast. The eggs are fluffy, made with more egg-whites than normal, folded with spinach and peppers, and it’s… interesting? Funny to see the amount he’s got on his plate, cutting into his sausage to mix it into his eggs.</p><p>She kinda feels bad for how little oatmeal she fed him last night. But he did doctor it up with peanut butter and protein powder so…there’s that.</p><p>“You do this for every meal?” she asks, and he smiles a little when she eyes his plate.</p><p>He nods, chewing and swallowing before answering. “Most. Or I’ll pack some protein powder on my longer trips, save the hassle of arranging even more meals. Though on those Mel would be handling a lot of the everyday stuff— which also sounds terrible as well, but I’d probably lose my head without her arranging all the day to day bits.”</p><p><em>Mel</em>, Sofie remembers, his assistant; the dark-haired woman she met only briefly in that hotel gym in New York but has heard more than a little about over the time since they started texting and skyping again. Sofie knows that she’s thirty-one, lives in London, but travels just as much as Henry does, and she’s on most of Henry’s longer trips that deal with his career. From photoshoots to interviews, to that event in Vegas he was at when Sofie sent him that drunk video.</p><p>The person he talks to <em>probably more than my own family</em>, he’d said.</p><p>Sofie wonders if Henry’s mentioned her or them, or whatever it is they’re doing, to Melanie.</p><p>She wonders if she’d even <em>want</em> him to. What would he say? <em>Remember that girl in the hotel gym? The one I hooked up with before leaving New York?</em></p><p>She wonders if he’s mentioned her to <em>anyone</em> in his life at all.</p><p>But then, Sofie hasn’t mentioned him to anyone either, she realises. Not really. Not… any part of who he is or how they’ve been talking, or… or<em> any </em>of it.</p><p>Hiding a grimace, Sofie forks more eggs into her mouth, watching Henry type something into his phone before turning it to face her.</p><p>“It’s this one, right?”</p><p>Google Maps is pulled up on his phone and the hiking trail she’d mentioned is the destination he’s typed in.</p><p>Sofie nods and Henry turns his phone back around to type in the hotel’s name as their starting point.</p><p>It’s one of the quieter, nicer trails in Portland, a fifteen-minute drive from his hotel, and though she thinks she’d like to take him to the coast, it’s… they don’t have that much time together, but maybe if he comes back—</p><p><em>Maybe if he comes back</em>, she thinks, <em>if it’s more than a day— </em>she can show him a bit more of Maine because she’d like him to… she’d like him to <em>like it,</em> just like she does. She isn’t sure why it’s important, only that it sort of is.</p><p>Portland may not be the most exciting place, but it has some beautiful areas and Maine has even more, and she knows he likes the outdoors just as much as she does— so, she’d like to… like to show him, she thinks<em>. Share</em> it with him, maybe.</p><p>She’d like to head to Bay Harbour, but it’s hours away. Acadia Park. Or the Kennebunks, but Cape Elizabeth would be a good runner up to that, she thinks.</p><p>
  <em>If he comes back. If this is more than a one-off. Two-off?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Second bite just to check the taste?</em>
</p><p>Sofie shoves the thoughts away and nods, and watches him fork another mouthful of eggs, eating absently as he looks up directions because he’s <em>rented a car,</em> he told her, <em>wherever you pick, we can go.</em></p><p>Because they’re spending the day together.</p><p>(He’s in her head, behind her in the mirror, his hand on her stomach. His voice in her head and chest and ears. <em>Want to spend the day with me, Sofie?</em>)</p><p>And that’s… that’s more than a second bite, isn’t it?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “I actually liked him as Batma—<em>woah—</em>” Sofie stutters as she trips. Henry pulls his arm up, dragging hers along with it by their linked hands. The move saves her from falling as she stumbles on an uneven rock that makes up a set of rugged steps along a small rise along the path that leads to Jewel Falls. “—man,” she finishes with an awkward laugh.</p><p>“Alright?” he asks, his other hand hovering between reaching out for her and seeing her rebalance, her hand tight in his.</p><p>Sofie nods, playing it cool even though her heart totally did stop for like, half a second there. Face-planting into a set of jagged rock steps isn’t exactly an attractive thing to do, she thinks.</p><p>“Yup,” she says giving him a grin and blowing out another airy laugh only tipped in a little bit of nerves. “Batman, Affleck. Totally didn’t deserve the hate.”</p><p>Henry nods, his hand tightening in hers a little as they continue along the stone steps. The sun shines down on them, cresting past the midday point, it’s warm but there’s a nice breeze blowing through the trees and it drags the fresh green and earthy smell of the forest around them.</p><p>He passes her the water bottle they’ve been sharing, pausing to let her take a sip before wiping her mouth and handing it back to him.</p><p>“I think he was just…” he trails off, talking his own mouthful of water. “They were really trying to show a darker, older batman. Bale had the whole, younger, something-to-prove Batman role. Ben was coming at it from the jaded, grittier version. The problem was that most people only knew Bale’s version. And it’s hard to sway an audience into a whole new take.”</p><p>“Didn’t help he didn’t have his own movie, either. I don’t really like Marvel, but they had the right idea, doing a bunch of solo movies as well as like, group movies.”</p><p>“I agree. Though I’m not sure they made the right choice in having him being so… willing to kill,” he adds with a little grimace. “I wasn’t quite sure on that when I read the script but… there’s only so much anyone is willing to change and Zack was pretty set in this version.” He pauses, looking down at her with a crooked smile. “Not a Marvel fan, huh? That’s rare.”</p><p>“I don’t think I know enough about the source to see anything wrong with the whole… murder thing?” she says and then shrugs and smiles. “Yeah, I know. Tell me about it. I’m honestly, like super sick of all those movies. But everyone loves them and I can’t say anything because <em>everyone</em> loves them.”</p><p>He laughs. “You’re not wrong. It’s a real problem in being more of a DC boy than a Marvel one.”</p><p>“Would you— sorry, this is like, totally an interview question and… sorry,” she laughs as she bumps into him a bit on a narrower section of trail. “Would you play him again? Superman, I mean.”</p><p>“In a heartbeat,” he grins and pulls her closer to his side. “And don’t apologise.”</p><p>Sofie shrugs, enjoying the warmth of his body next to hers, the cologne just there, beneath the fresh green, woodsy smell around them. The sun filtering warmly through the trees, the wind rustling. It’s all… a bit perfect, she thinks.</p><p>“You didn’t look me up much, huh?”</p><p>“What after New York?” she asks with a frown and a little nagging itch of knowledge that she <em>did.</em> She just didn’t watch a lot of interviews. “Why?”</p><p>“During, after. Either one,” he says and then laughs a little. “It <em>is</em> one of the most asked questions in interviews. The whole… picking up the suit or cape or mantel, again.”</p><p><em>Ugh,</em> Sofie scrunches her nose. “Of course, it is.”</p><p>She thinks back to sitting in her hotel room, trying not to look him up, giving into it anyway, and then stopping herself. She tries not to feel awkward about it but it’s there inside of her. The memory of how she felt, hair wrapped in a towel, tucked in the big hotel bed all alone, thinking about the man a few floors down that had made her stomach fucking <em>flip. </em></p><p>With just a smile.</p><p>She hesitates before admitting: “I may have Google-creeped you a bit. Like a little bit. That’s why when you… when I saw you in the restaurant— uhm, I thought you might’ve had a girlfriend. She seemed very touchy.”</p><p>He pulls a face. “She was. Worked for the magazine I interviewed for. Kaylee or something. Good at her job, I’m sure, but came on a bit strong. And I was, decidedly, a bit distracted.”</p><p>His smirk makes the connotation obvious, and Sofie feels her insides twist with the idea of it. (<em>I’ve been thinking about you all day, Sofie, and I would really, very much, like to fuck you again.)</em></p><p>“So that was true, then? Not some super slick line?”</p><p>“Thinking about you all day?” He laughs, “Not even a little bit of a line. I am not that smooth.”</p><p>“I think you’re pretty smooth,” she says, looking down and feeling her cheeks warm when he grins, crooked and roguish. “Minus that <em>want to be my moon, Sofie?</em>”</p><p>He winces and laughs, “That was bloody terrible, wasn’t it? I don’t know where that came from. Slipped out of some nerd-recess in my mind.”</p><p>“It was the losing, I bet. <em>Hey</em>— we should’ve totally had a race in person. I can’t believe we didn’t think about it— we could do it now? And you need to train for Durrell, too. Not walking a trail like this.”</p><p>He shrugs, looking over the trail and then back to her. “I like this. We’ve raced plenty since New York. I’m sure we’ll do more before Durrell.”</p><p>Sofie grins. “You just don’t want to lose in person. I get it. You’re feeling sensitive over the guaranteed loss. It’s okay, I understand. Your ego can’t take the blow.”</p><p>He laughs, his head tilting back, the sound deep and full; Sofie watches it, feeling that bright mix of joy at making him… happy? Entertained? Of being the cause of that reaction.</p><p>Or something just about as corny as that.</p><p>“<em>Sofie</em>—” he says, as he tries to reign in his laughter, giving a cut-off laugh and trying to speak around it, his grin still wide and white and blinding as he reaches for her, tugging her in front of him and cupping her cheeks. “Sofie, <em>darling,</em> you <em>limped</em> out of bed this morning. I could lose a race to a <em>toddler</em> and I’d still be fuckin’ <em>soaring</em>.”</p><p>Sofie blinks.</p><p>Henry grins at her. “There’s nothing in this <em>world</em> that could hurt my ego at all for the foreseeable fucking <em>future</em>.”</p><p>Sofie’s mind staggers for half a second before she’s laughing, her cheeks burning, because it’s <em>true,</em> because she’s still sore, because it’s wonderful and terrible, all at once.</p><p>She shoves away from him with an <em>oh my God—</em> their laughter spilling; he tugs her back, catching her hand and folding his arm over her shoulders, to keep her close. Ducking his head to press a kiss to her cheek, his laughter puffing.</p><p>“I can’t believe you just said that!” she laughs, pressing her forehead against his forearm folded over her shoulder. “Oh my <em>God</em>.”</p><p>“Is it not true?” he teases, his grin toothy, an eyebrow tilting up.</p><p>Sofie shakes her head, her cheeks sore from smiling. “I plead the fifth.”</p><p>“Avoidance. Common Sofie tactic. It’s the truth.”</p><p>“I hate you.”</p><p>“You definitely do not,” he smirks. “Not even a little.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                                They make it to the waterfall, that’s less a true waterfall and more of a sloping rock-face that water flows over. But the afternoon sun is shining down, bleeding through the green canopy above them and it’s a quiet Monday; they only catch the receding figures of an older couple, hiking along the path in front of them, obviously using the path more for exercise than sight-seeing, as they don’t linger at all.</p><p>She’s glad, there’s a very real bit of her that wants him to herself, she thinks, a little selfishly. For however much time they have left before his flight tomorrow, she wants it to be just them.</p><p>They take a break on the rocks along the edges of the falls, passing the water bottle they’re sharing between them, filling the quiet with conversation and laughter.</p><p>It’s still a fair bit of a hike back to the car, but for a moment, it’s nice to just… be together and not think about anything at all.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “I think I got a bump on my head,” Sofie says with a pout as she rubs at the top of her head, her fingers slick with shampoo, lingering over a little sore spot. “From the cabinet.”</p><p>Henry fights a smile, his hand coming up to slide his fingers over the spot she’s rubbing over. “Oh, dear.”</p><p>“You’ve <em>wounded</em> me.”</p><p>“But it’s a very glorious sex wound,” he says with a crooked smile. “Which makes all the difference.”</p><p>Sofie huffs a laugh, letting him take over rubbing the shampoo through her hair when he starts after carefully touching the bump on her head.</p><p>She tilts her head back a little and enjoys the weird sort of massage of his fingers against her scalp; her eyes close and she breathes in the smell of the shampoo, <em>his</em>, she thinks, a travel bottle of something expensive. (The same smell she found in her hotel pillows after he’d left, and now, she thinks, she’ll find it in her own bed, back at home.)</p><p>Henry presses a kiss to her lips, it’s soft and easy and nothing more than a touch of his lips sliding softly against hers before he eases her head back more, tilting it into the stream of the shower, running his fingers through the length of her hair to work the shampoo out.</p><p>It’s a stupidly nice feeling. Every stroke of his fingers and faint, light scrape of his nails. The way she knows he’s looking at her, that weird weight of his gaze. The steam of the shower air, the heat of the water, and the heat of his body in front of hers.</p><p>All of it is stupidly nice.</p><p>When his hands fall away and she tilts her head up again, Henry’s reaching for the conditioner. She doesn’t even argue when he squirts some in his palm, hands moving back to her head, working it through the length.</p><p>“You’re pretty good at this,” she mumbles and blinks at him, feeling lulled by his hands and the hot water and him, entirely.</p><p>Like she’s a sticky bit of syrup, stuck to his fingers.</p><p>“Used to have longer hair,” he says. “When I was younger and filming the Tudors. Bit of man-bun situation.”</p><p>Sofie’s smile is slow and entertained. “I’ve never seen it. Did you really?”</p><p>He nods. “Probably because you were like, what?” he pulls a face, his eyes flicking away as he thinks. “2010, I think? You’d have been—” he pulls another face, his hands stilling in her hair. “Well, that’s fucking<em> rough</em>.”</p><p><em>Thirteen,</em> she thinks, even though he doesn’t say it, she knows he’s realised the same.</p><p>Sofie grins, wrapping her arms around his middle and pushing her chin into his chest. “You’re so <em>old, oh my God.</em>”</p><p>He rolls his eyes, reaching down and pinching her ass with slick fingers. “<em>Limping</em>.”</p><p>Her face scrunches with her laughter and she buries it into his chest. Hearing him muttering <em>brat,</em> as he gathers her hair up in his fist, twists it all up and knots it on the top of her head with the conditioner still soaking in.</p><p>He wasn’t lying, she thinks, he does know what he’s doing with longer hair.</p><p>When she feels him reach for the shampoo again, Sofie bats his hand away. “My turn.”</p><p>She can’t really reach properly, and he lifts a brow at her and it’s full of, <em>oh yeah? What are you going to do now?</em></p><p>They both laugh a little as she tries to tilt up higher and he ducks down a little more— until he curves his hands under her ass and drags her up and into his arms.</p><p>Sofie grins, peering down at him, stealing a moment to kiss him messily through a smile and a laugh.</p><p>“I think this is cheating,” she says, but pushes her soapy fingers through his hair and enjoys her new-found height.</p><p>“I think you’re too caught up in playing fair,” Henry says, his voiced muffled as he presses a few lazy, slicked-mouthed, slicked-skin kisses to her chest and neck as she works the shampoo into his hair. “It’s a dog eat dog world, isn’t that right, Miss Miller? Sometimes you got to get your own.”</p><p>Sofie grins, squirming a little when he scrapes his teeth over her nipple. “So this is what, a symbiotic relationship?”</p><p>He hums, looking up at her when she taps his shoulder, turning them around so the shower hits his shoulders, and it goes quiet as Henry tilts his head back a little, his eyes closing as Sofie runs her fingers through his hair, easing out the shampoo… and stealing an indulgently long look at his face, tilted up at her, his hair slick and dark, the day-old stubble, the carved angles of his jaw…</p><p>“What’s the other one?” he mutters, his Adam’s apple moving, his throat thick, leading down to his chest and shoulders and…</p><p>Sofie swallows. “Parasitic?”</p><p>His eyebrows twitch together, Sofie eases her fingers through his hair, clean and free of soap now, but… but she’s stealing a bit longer to look at him. His eyelashes dark, the little line on the end of his nose, that dimple in his chin.</p><p>She wants to touch him more, but she isn’t sure if it’s too weird.</p><p>“No, the other one.”</p><p>“Mutualism?”</p><p>“That one.”</p><p>“Not sure that works here,” Sofie says with a little laugh, giving up on debating on whether petting his face is weird and reaching for the conditioner. Henry blinks at her as she shakes some out into her palm, rolling her eyes at him when his eyes dart down to her chest, his grin slow and crooked.</p><p>“Why not?” he asks as she rubs the conditioner into his hair.</p><p>“Because,” she laughs. “I’m <em>clearly</em> the little dog in this situation, and I’m not too sure what you’d get out of it.”</p><p>“Don’t think you’ve been paying attention, then,” he says, squinting up at her; she wipes over the side of his face, chasing a stream of water until he can look at her normally. “You get easy access to the top shelf, I get easy access to <em>this</em>.”</p><p>He gropes her ass a little more, tugging her a little tighter into him; Sofie laughs, leaning into it.</p><p><em>Mutualism</em>, he mumbles into her neck, his teeth scraping her skin, his tongue chasing it. <em>See</em>?</p><p>Sofie laughs, but when he leans back, his smile is softer than she expects it to be, his eyes a bit more searching than that like, glittering they do when he’s laughing with her.</p><p><em>Glittering,</em> she thinks, <em>you lame ass.</em></p><p>“But more importantly,” he says, and it’s all chest-deep and low, like the warmth of the shower, pattering and humming and steaming around them. “Is that I like you.”</p><p>It’s… a weird moment, where his words settle and his eyes are all… quiet and searching and Sofie’s stuck somewhere between still laughing at his last joke and thinking he should be still <em>joking</em> because they were <em>joking around—that’s what they were doing— </em>and being able to <em>see</em> that he’s not anymore.</p><p>She has no idea what to say, what do you say to that? <em>I like you, too?</em></p><p>
  <em>Thanks?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Is it a general like or a like-like?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I like you so much that I cried a little after New York? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I like you so much I don’t know what to do with all that like except swallow it back down in case it all comes up bubbling into something crazy and loud and stupid?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Do your insides feel like champagne and Jello and electricity all at once, too?</em>
</p><p>The water hums around them.</p><p>Sofie presses her lips to his, slower than he did before, her hands hesitant before sliding over the stubble on his cheeks, feeling that— that other bit of <em>like</em> inside of her stomach. That one that’s a bit more warm and wanting and— it’s quieter than the fizz and the Jello and the electricity, but just as staggering.</p><p>He kisses her back, just as slowly, one of his hands easing up her spine, notch by notch, the other cupping her ass cheek, holding her up.</p><p>She’s sore and achy and wanting.</p><p>She has no idea if she can go again.</p><p>He wasn’t lying about the limping.</p><p>But— she isn’t sure that’s what this moment is about, at all.</p><p>Henry only strokes his hand up her spine, slow and smooth, until he cups the back of her neck, breaking their kiss, mouthing over her cheek and jaw, down her neck while Sofie just…  wraps her arms around his neck and holds on.</p><p>It’s a weird sort of hug, she thinks, but it’s a hug.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Just want to put a little note up, I know everyone is really keen for them to have the Big Conversation™, but I don't think it's entirely realistic for them to just lay everything out in one go (especially in such a new relationship.) I've never found that enjoyable or realistic in a story.<br/>There will definitely be a some more serious conversations before he leaves, don't get too worried that they aren't going to clear the air on some things between them. They just aren't going to have this big... we're 200% committed/devoted sort of conversation. It'll come in bits and pieces as things come up as I think that plays more true to how people interact in real life.</p><p>And I know there was a bit of a concern about Sofie needing to 'grow up' a little bit, and I get why... but I'm a big fan of character growth and I think it's important for story progression, especially a longer one.  Both of them will grow through the story, and I hope it all makes sense and seems as natural to everyone as it seems to me as I've planned it. </p><p> </p><p>But yeah, anyway, I hope that all makes sense and I'd love to hear your thoughts on it, and I do really hope that there's not too much disappointment on the 'big conversation/confession of feelings' thing! I promise, after the next chapter, there will be no doubts in either one of them about the status of the relationship growing between them. :)</p><p>Thanks so much for reading, this story and all of you reading and commenting has been the best part of my 2020. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hope someone is enjoying this because I can't actually believe i'm so into this fucker. But here we are. It wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. </p><p>(if there's anything you'd like to see, hit me up, maybe I'll try to jam it into this mess.)</p><p>Now here: thhimble.tumblr.com</p></blockquote></div></div>
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